


Love in Film

by backspaceunlimited



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, non-sburb AU, unsuccessful dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backspaceunlimited/pseuds/backspaceunlimited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You just stare at him from behind your shades because you have no idea how to respond to his level of enthusiasm. Snarky, bitchy, jaded, all that you can handle. Awkward optimism is apparently the antidote to Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wizard snuff film

**Author's Note:**

> first chapter all up and formatted and whatnot i have a few more written so i'll prolly post them within the next few days. merry johndave to you

You slump languidly on the couch, eyes mostly closed behind dark lenses. The old tube television across the room blares an infomercial about online college, but it barely stirs you from a heat-induced daze. When a bead of sweat drips past the top rim of your shades, you break from the stupor to peel an arm from the vinyl cushion and wipe the drop away. 

“Its really fucking hot.” 

There isn't anyone around to hear you of course. In the past, muttering complaints to a seemingly empty apartment might have earned you a few ice cubes down your shirt courtesy a vague orange blur with sharp edges. But Bro isn't here. You have your own shitty apartment now, thousands of miles away from that asshole. Even so, you still half-expect Lil Cal to suddenly appear for a fist-bump.

After moving away from the Swedish sauna that is Houston, Texas, you thought you could place a delicate farewell kiss on the moments of sticky lethargy during the heat of summer. But New York apparently isn't any better during August. Here in the concrete jungle the temperatures had been brushing triple digits for the past week and a half. This should be fine in your dark studio apartment except for the fact that you had no AC. New York has snow and shit, right? Apparently fucking not. 

Sighing, you peel yourself off the couch and head into the kitchen. You're hungry but there's no food in the house except for some stale Cheetos, and you'd rather not have cheez dust hovering in the sweltering dead air. You grab a dirty glass from the sink, fill it with some tap water, and try to ignore the overwhelming taste of chemicals as you chug it down. Hopefully it'll help lower your body temperature. Probably. 

You glance at the fridge, wishing for once that the ice-maker on the front still worked. But no, you converted the fridge into your makeshift darkroom after finding out how much effort and cash it took to keep perishable food. Bro had the right idea by keeping the one in the old apartment full of shitty swords. Bro had a lot of things right actually. Stuff is different when you have to fend for yourself in the world.

Goddamnit, living by yourself is making you way too fucking introspective.

A pinging noise sounds from other room. You toss the empty glass back into the sink and slouch over to the door. One nice thing about living alone is that you never really have to be decent. Your latest outfit lay abandoned in a messy heap near the entryway. You reach down and grab your jeans, fishing your phone from the back pocket. Someone was pestering you:

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 15:07--

TT: Hello dear brother.  
TT: I have a request that requires your immediate attention.

 

Damnit Rose. You were hoping it was someone getting back to you about a gig or a shoot, not your pretentious sister poised and ready on the tip of her fucking seat to meddle in your business.

 

TG: sup  
TG: whats got your bloomers in a tussle  
TG: cause ive got a case of serious fucking business happening over here  
TG: i dont have time to spare  
TG: being a character study for one of your wizard snuff films or whatever  
TG: putting your bro in one of those is downright messed up  
TG: im pretty sure freud is rolling around in his decomposing beard  
TT: I'd like to point out that you are the one hinting at incestuous fantasies, not me.  
TT: Hmm. We may need to delve into this further.  
TG: oh god no  
TG: please  
TG: just  
TG: what do you want  
TT: I'll keep this brief I suppose.  
TT: There is a rather large gathering happening tonight.  
TT: A film gala to be exact.  
TT: Myself and a few other screenwriters were invited, as well as some producers, directors, effects representatives, and even a few critics.  
TT: Invitees are supposed to bring a guest, and unfortunately my date for the evening canceled on me an hour ago.  
TG: so kanaya didnt want to put up with all the smarmy execs  
TG: cmon rose thats a lot of pressure for like a fourth date  
TT: Sixth. And yes, I suppose I might have miscalculated the effect that request might have on our relationship.  
TG: hup there it goes  
TG: the icy facade begins to melt  
TG: birds are tweeting saccharine melodies and shit  
TG: spring is here  
TG: and rose is a human being  
TG: who needs some comfort from her bro  
TT: I need no such thing.  
TT: My emotions are perfectly stable. Rejection doesn't send me into fits of spiraling depression like it does to you.  
TT: However, I did RSVP a guest, and I would really appreciate it if you would attend the gala with me.  
TG: will there be food  
TT: Plenty of it, and an open bar.  
TG: done  
TT: I'll pick you up at six.  
TT: See you then.  
TG: later

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 15:28--

 

You lounge around for the next few hours and then rush through a cold shower. With the sweat and heat off of your skin for the time being, you scan your small wardrobe for appropriate gala attire. You don't have much really, so you dress in your fanciest dark jeans and v-neck white t-shirt. There's a grey blazer hanging in the back corner of your closet, and you grab it with a sigh, vowing not to put it on until you're in some AC.

The only clock that you have in your apartment is on your cell phone, but you don't ever need it. You have some weird sixth sense bullshit where you subconsciously seem to always know what time it is. This mental clock is yelling 5:55, so you grab your blazer, phone and wallet and head out the door.

Your place is a low budget closet on the top floor of the building, which is pretty inconvenient when you have to haul equipment up the stairs. It does have the nostalgia factor though; sometimes you take to the roof with your old katana and sling some sweet moves into the polluted sky. Anyways you're used to bolting down the stairs by now, so you take the steps two at a time, pausing to nod at the old woman on 5th who likes to cross-stitch on the landing. 

Rose is already here, as you figured she would be. You open the passenger door of her black Mercedes and slide inside, letting a smile ghost your lips as the AC blasts your face. You turn to her and nod.

“Lalonde.”

“Strider.”

She is channeling Audrey Hepburn in her fancy getup, and you begrudgingly admit to yourself that she looks nice. Unfortunately she then opens her mouth and shoves that compliment into the bottom of your skull.

“You do know that we are going to a gala, correct? Not a bar, or a club, or a casual birthday party.”

“Ahahah. Haha. Ha. Oh man, good one Rose, I can feel my stitches pulling from all this laughter.” You pick up the blazer and hold it in front of her face with two fingers. “I brought a jacket.” 

She sighs heavily and touches her index finger to her temple. “Can you at least manage to remove your sunglasses for the evening?” 

You just stare at her from behind your shades and she mutters “I suppose it was worth a shot.” She turns from you, sighing dramatically, then guns the car into traffic. Damnit if this ride isn't the most choice piece of machinery since the turntable.

Rose is a huge deal now. She came out of some women's university after five years with an MA in Literature and has been writing ever since. She had a few books of poetry published small-time during college, but her big break was writing a screenplay for an artsy film that went big at Sundance. That was a little over a year ago, and now she has execs snapping at her all the time. 

You moved to New York on her recommendation (and after many shouted wit/rap battles) to try to catch a break in the club scene. Though you still love Houston for its eclectic nature and openness to bending the norm for art's sake, there's no way you could make it there. However, upon arriving to the Big Apple, you realized quickly that the clubs weren't willing to let a no-name college dropout so much as touch a set of turntables. You've been floating by on your photography hobby lately, but its barely enough to make rent. 

And here's your sis gliding around in her Mercedes picking up more chicks than you are and you can't help but feel a little sting of envy sometimes. Ok, maybe a huge fucking bullet of envy and self loathing is lodged in your gut.

As it turns out, along with her other gifts, Rose is exceptionally good at reading people. She claims its similar to the little quirk that you have with time. Whatever it is, she knows that right now you're feeling pretty shitty about life in general. And hungry. Really fucking hungry.

“Don't act so worried, I'm going to tell everyone that you're an artist. All your aloofness can be explained away with two simple syllables.”

“Gee thanks Rose, I had no idea how I would ever express my existence to pretentious self-important bigots without your help.”

She grimaced a little at that. For all her sensitivity to other people's emotions, she had a hard time not being blunt in her responses. You guess its a family trait.

“You don't have to be self-conscious. Just try to have a good time.” She turns to smile at you sadly, and you remember with a twinge of guilt that the reason you're here is because her semi-girlfriend didn't want to be. You look straight ahead, watching the distant fervor of the city pass by. There's silence for a few seconds as the both of you stew in your isolated bubbles of thought.

“She'll come around. And if she doesn't, then she isn't fucking good enough for you.” You don't look at her, but you manage to place what you hope is a reassuring hand on her shoulder for a few seconds. From the corner of your eye you see her smile again.

“One can only hope.” 

A few minutes later she pulls into the driveway of a ritzy looking hotel. You both get out at the front entrance and a guy with a better jacket than you was taking keys for valet. Rose hands him her keyring and you shrug on your own blazer. Pushing your shades up the bridge of your nose, you extend the crook of your arm towards Rose.

“M'lady”

She smirks and takes your arm. “Why thank you noble knight.”

“Hey I said no fucking wizard snuff.”

“If you say so.”

\------------------------ 

One full stomach and a slight buzz later, you are having a good time.

Rose pretty much just stuck to you all night, which you were secretly glad for. In between trying to figure out how to scarf down food in a dignified fashion and sipping fluted glasses of really good champagne, she had introduced you to some of her writer buds who were actually cool. She explained to everyone that you were an art photographer, and made it sound edgy enough for your approval. You mostly nodded and shook hands, but the few words you did interject were received with open curiosity. A few big shots came over to talk with Rose and you actually passed out three or four business cards to people who pretended to know your work.

Rose turns to you after a lull in the group conversation. “Having a good time?”

“Its not the worst thing I could possibly do on a Friday night.”

“As you can see, not all of the people in attendance are, as you would call them, pretentious bigots.”

“Right well I still feel like Jack Dawson refusing caviar in first class, like at midnight your Mercedes is going to turn into a pumpkin and I have to walk five miles back to E-Deck.”  
She rolls her eyes at you, and you're about to break into another quip when the most goddamn ungainly sound meets your ears. You turn to look at the group of people next to you and can't help but stare at a man giggling hysterically. His eyes are tearing up behind thick square glasses and he even lets a snort or two rip out.

“Can I have some of what he's having?” You whisper loudly to Rose as the man seems to calm down a bit. He's still got this dorky ass smile on his face, though you doubt his smile could be anything but huge with that massive overbite he's got going on. 

“That's John Egbert, film critic for the New York Times.”

“Critic? Huh. I always thought of them as like these creatures of the night with demon laser eyes who lock themselves in their bedrooms picking apart the foundations of art and stuff.”

“Dave, you just described yourself.”

“Shut up. He's just not what I picture when I conjure the word 'critic' into my thinkpan.”

“Well, he's kind of a fluff critic I suppose.” You raise your eyebrows. “I mean he is person that the Times hired to give all of the terrible blockbusters and comedies a good rating. He was quoted on advertisements for the most recent Michael Bay film I think.”

“Ahhh, a man with a sense of irony. I can appreciate that.”

“Well actually, he wasn't hired because he was good at embellishment. He apparently enjoys the films wholeheartedly and writes honest positive reviews.”

You tilt your head to the side, still staring at the man. “Huh.”

The man – John - chooses that moment to glance in your direction and a larger, dorkier ( is it even possible? ) smile spreads across his face.

“Rose! Rose Lalonde! There you are!” He excuses himself from the group and comes walking towards where you two are standing. His gait is awkward and upright, and you can see that he's got crumbs all over his jacket. His dark hair is a huge mess. He obviously tried to gel parts of it down, but the effort only seemed to result in an out-of-control bedhead. His olive complexion isn't flushed at all, so your assumption that his behavior was caused by the champagne was off base. John Egbert just seemed to be perfectly content bumbling about, and to be honest it threw you off big-time.

“Hello John, how have you been?” 

He takes Rose's gloved hand and lays a polite kiss on it. She laughs and you just stare at him, deadpan from behind your shades. He catches the look and quickly lets go. “Oh gosh, sorry. Is this your date Rose?” He extends a hand and you shake it as Rose explains.

“No, unfortunately my date for the evening canceled on me. However, my brother was lovely enough to attend in her place. John, I would like you to meet David Strider. David, this is John Egbert.”

The grin returns to his face. “Wow, I didn't know you had a brother!” He turns to face your properly. “Its great to meet you David.” His statement was the absolute paragon of sincerity.

“Dave, actually.”

“Oh, ok Dave!” He finally lets the handshake go and you shove both hands in your pockets. He and Rose proceed to have a spirited conversation about the current atmosphere of modern cinema and you shrug off to refill your glass. When you return, you realize that the subject of the conversation has shifted to you. 

“There you are David. I was just telling John about your photography.”

“Yea, I figured you were someone special. Your face has coolkid written all over it.” He grins broadly at his own joke, and you feel the corner of your mouth threatening to jerk its way upward. He's just too cliché. This guy can't be for real. 

“Well, I'm not gonna deny that I'm awesome.”

“He forgot to turn over his ego at the coat check.” Rose smirks at you.

“I figured that you might work for the Times or something, and that we had never met cause the building is so big and stuff.” John rubs the back of his neck and looks at you a bit sheepishly.

“Nah, I don't do photojournalism.”

“Right . . .” He chews on his lip with those enormous front teeth. Your mouth twitches slightly.

“So Rose said that you were a critic or something?” His face brightens. 

“Yea! Its a pretty awesome deal, I get to preview movies and go to premieres and all sorts of stuff.” His grin is back full force as he leans in and almost whispers “I even get to meet a few celebrities!” He straightens up and looks around the room a moment. “There are a bunch of industry celebrities here tonight actually. It makes me a little nervous.” He pauses for a second and looks at you like he's expecting some sort of response. You just stare at him from behind your shades because you have no idea how to respond to his level of enthusiasm. Snarky, bitchy, jaded, all that you can handle. Awkward optimism is apparently the antidote to Strider.

Rose thankfully senses your uncertainty and fills in the conversation: “What films have you seen lately John?”

He keeps babbling, obviously not attuned to the nuances of Strider/Ladonde weird sibling psychic link. “I sat in on the premiere of Transformers 5, and oh man was that great! In 3D the special effects practically slap you in the face, and all the motion is blurry and mechanical and they ramped up the slapstick comedy elements and its just really great.” He pauses to take a well-deserved breath. “A lot of people think that Michael Bay is shit, but I think he's a genius. He's playing into the basic entertainment needs of humans and its such a simple concept dressed up with elaborate studio work. My only negative mark on it was that the story seemed too similar to the latest two films. Sam Witwicky has a new girlfriend and it just seems a little contrived you know? Like he must not have taken Romance 101 in Transformers 2 when he was in university.” Egbert starts laughing and you feel like you need to dodge his teeth and there goes the snorting and how does this guy even exist?

Rose elbows you and you realize that your mouth is hanging open slightly. You close it and just stare at him. She remarks with some pleasantries and the two of them continue the conversation. You've tuned them out by this point. Your head is kinda fuzzy, partly because you just downed another glass and partly because Egbert just blew your goddamn mind with his rambling. You can't really properly concentrate anymore, so you wordlessly excuse yourself to the restroom. By the time you've returned, John has wandered off and Rose is standing alone, observing the people mulling around.

“That guy was something, what planet did he even fall off of?” 

Rose looks at you pointedly “John is a really nice guy who has a job doing what he loves.”

“Yea yea I get it. But seriously? Michael Bay a genius? Did I take the blue pill by mistake, or did he?” 

“You both did.” She's looking agitated, and you don't let it escape your notice that she's gripping her lighted phone inside of her clutch purse. 

“Is is Yaya?”

She glares at you. “Don't call her that. And yes it is, as a matter of fact.” A heavy sigh escapes her mouth, and it makes her look world-weary. Your headclock tells you that its almost 11pm. You nudge her side. “Its getting kinda late, wanna blow this joint?”

She looks at you vaguely, then glances into her purse. “I suppose we have stayed long enough to be polite.” Her face is set in a neutral mask, and she grabs your arm and strides towards the exit.

The valet quickly retrieves the car, and Rose slips him fifty. You groan a little at her casual flashing of the Grants as you slide into the car. The ride back to your apartment is silent except for the small vibrating noises of Rose's phone in her purse. She ignores them. 

Your apartment building looks dark compared to the brighter lights of the skyscrapers, and you feel almost claustrophobic as you get out of the car. 

“Call me if I accidentally left behind a glass slipper.”

She smiles a little at that. “Ah, but you know the story, I have to try the shoe on your wicked brother first”.

“Your funeral. I do not want to see that's mans feet under glass.” You shudder dramatically and she blanches a bit.

“Take care of yourself, ok?” She looks serious and there's a hint of pity and dammit if that look doesn't make you want to crawl inside yourself and die.

“I'll do my best. Say hi to Yaya for me.” She makes a face and rolls up the window, then speeds away.

\---------------------------

As soon as the door closes to your apartment you let out an enormous groan and lose your pants and shoes. You notice as you drop your jacket onto the floor that it makes a more noticeable rustle than fabric ought to. You fumble in the inner pocket and yank out a small, folded piece of paper. There's some heavy-handed elegant scrawl bleeding through the back side of the note. Rose. You unfold it and a small pink check flutters out. The check has kittens printed on it, and is made out to a Mr. David Strider. It reads $5,000. 

Your shock quickly turns to anger, then to self-loathing. You contemplate tearing it up, especially when you see that she wrote “Don't argue with me.” in the memo section. However, rent is coming up. And you need some food. And you need to buy a car at some point. Dammit.

You walk over to the couch and collapse on it, hunching over with your forehead in one hand. Fuck. The shades have slipped down the bridge of your nose, and you move your gaze from the check to the handwritten note. 

“Don't argue with me. Use this for whatever you need. Stop being such a stubborn ass, and admit when you need some help.” There's a postscript and you move your thumb to read it. “PS: I gave John your chumhandle, so expect a message from him soon.” 

Speak of the fucking bucktoothed devil, a ping sounds from your pants by the door. You contemplate not checking it, but your curiosity gets the better of you. When the screen lights up, some unfamiliar blue text is scrawled across your chat client.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:42-- 

EB: hey man!  
EB: oh wait, i'm talking to dave, right?  
EB: bluh wait again, this is john speaking. . .  
EB: dave?  
EB: oh you're probably asleep cause you guys left pretty early.  
EB: i'll talk to you tomorrow then!  
EB: sleep tight, don't let the slime ghosts, well, slime you or whatever.  
EB: heh heh

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] has ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:49--

You collapse face-first onto the couch, suddenly too dazed to deal with anymore bullshit.


	2. steaming taint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> movie not-a-date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch2 uhm here it is

There's a searing redness building behind your eyelids, which you groggily take to be the visual manifestation of the fucking migraine throbbing its way through your sweaty forehead. You were never a morning person (morning of course being a relative marker depending on what hour you decided to grace the world with your presence), but right now the more you seem to clue into reality, the shittier you feel. 

You open your eyes and shut them immediately, muttering curses. Squinting, you fumble for your shades, peeling your face from the couch in the process, and find them askew on the floor. You shove them on and tentatively open your eyes again.

Your body, for all its sinewy muscle and dastardly good looks, is actually pretty damn sensitive to the elements. You and your Bro are both extremely fair-skinned, bordering on basically translucent, although he actively tries to get sun. You gave up on that shit years ago because all that ever comes out of it is pain. And freckles. Way too many fucking freckles.

You're lucky to have blond hair that isn't completely white, so you don't have to wear a hat all the time like Bro. However, your eyes are so sensitive that even the light from a bright room is pretty painful. That's the reason you wear shades all the time. Well, thats the biological reason at least.

And its also the reason why you're currently glowering at the open blinds, where the sunlight and spots of glare from skyscrapers are amassing a coordinated attack on your retinas. You heave your body off the couch sluggishly and yank on the window cord, letting the crappy plastic layers unfold with a rustle. 

You vaguely wonder what time it is, and your brain supplies the answer almost immediately: 10:34 am. Damn. Its pretty early for you actually. You try to recall the time you went to sleep, and memories of last night come flooding back.

Fucking Rose and her dirty money. Fucking cinema execs waddling around with their corner offices jutting out of their assholes. Fucking fancy-ass champagne that is probably the cause of your raging headache. Fucking John Egbert and that doofy smile. 

You grab your phone from the coffee table. Your PesterChum account is still up and showing John's one-sided conversation from last night. You also have a new message:

 

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 8:15--

TT: If you haven't yet discovered it, check the inside pocket of your jacket.  
TT: Also, Kanaya apologized.  
TT: Thanks for coming with me.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 8:15--

 

You see that she isn't online currently, but you leave her a message anyways.

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 10:38 -- 

TG: i don't need your fucking charity  
TG: but i will say  
TG: that i'm gonna order a huge pizza  
TG: meatlovers  
TG: and don't you even try to analyze my desire for delicious mounds of pepperoni  
TG: wait you're gonna have a field day with that one

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 10:40 -- 

 

You reopen the message from John, and add his name to your contacts. His chumhandle is also greyed-out, and you toy with the idea of just deleting him entirely. However your curiosity is a little bitch.

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 10:43 –

TG: sup  
TG: this is dave

 

You type out a few snarky replies and delete them all. Maybe you should just let him take the lead and see what he wants.

 

TG: check back with you later i guess

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 10:48 –

 

Thinking too much about that guy just makes you uncomfortable. As admittedly suave as you are, you really don't have many close friends. Mostly your charm comes out around people you already know, or people who you want to get into bed with. Egbert didn't seem to fit either of those options at this point, although you do concede that, overlooking the fact that he seems completely insane, he is a good looking guy. In a roundabout way. Maybe endearing is a better word. 

\--------------------------------------

Greasy mozzarella sticking to your chin may be decidedly uncool, but damnit you don't fucking care.

Your ancient Mac sits squarely on your lap. The thing is pretty roughed up, but it runs better than most new computers. Some guy you did a photo shoot for couldn't pay you with cash, but he did beef up your computer with his own custom hardware that has so far stayed miles ahead of the technological curve. He gave you his chumhandle in case you needed any more upgrades, although to be honest you don't want to deal with that lisping asshole.

You pull up Pesterchum again and scope out the chatting frontier. Rose is online, but you'd rather fucking not. You're about to close the client when another user logs on. 

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 13:58--

EB: hey dave!  
EB: i got your message, sorry if you were asleep or something.  
TG: nah its cool  
TG: ice up in here  
EB: bluhhh aren't you the lucky one.  
EB: it's hot as balls out.  
EB: i've been hold up in my room all day.  
EB: but i have to get out later to go review a film, so that will be fun at least!  
TG: what steaming pile of taint do you have to sit in on  
EB: ewww dawg!  
EB: magic mike 2  
TG: so you are literally going to see taint tonight  
TG: awesome  
EB: nooooooo  
EB: matt mcconaughey is one of my favorite actors!  
EB: he's reprising his role as dallas, the boss stripper.  
TG: this is unreal  
EB: and channing tatum is supposed to be returning as mike, so we need to see what sort of trouble that will get his budding relationship into!  
EB: its gonna be really good.  
TG: …  
TG: you realize that the theater is gonna be all chicks right  
EB: maybe i can snag a pretty lady then!  
TG: not a chance  
TG: its your face versus tatum's abs  
TG: you'll lose every time  
TG: also the fact that going to see a film about male strippers puts you squarely in the cum jockey category  
EB: i am not a homosexual  
TG: hey man   
TG: i don't judge  
TG: just let your little gay heart soar  
EB: i am sooooo not!  
EB: its just good cinema!!!  
TG: explain that to all the pretty ladies then  
EB: you really think its going to be that awkward?  
TG: absolutely  
EB: shit.  
EB: well, do you wanna go?  
EB: i mean i can take anyone.  
EB: a cool guy like you probably knows how to handle these sort of situations.  
TG: is this a date egbert  
EB: NO  
EB: just forget i asked!!!  
TG: i'm messing with you man  
TG: don't be so uptight  
TG: we can stoically hold down the masculine fort in the back row or something  
EB: thank god.  
EB: the movie starts at 7:25, and its playing at regal union square 14.  
EB: i'll meet you at the front, cause my badge will get us in for free.  
TG: cool  
TG: but  
TG: absolve my aching query  
EB: shoot.  
TG: we just met  
TG: and you are all being a bro and inviting me to shit  
TG: what gives  
EB: rose told me that you were fairly new to the city and looking for some friends.  
EB: and i'll have you know that i am totally awesome buddy material.  
EB: maybe your coolkid will rub off on me!  
TG: figures  
TG: couldn't resisit the strider charm  
EB: bluhhhh whatever.  
EB: you really are full of yourself!  
EB: well, actually rose said your apathetic exterior just hides an inferior perception of yourself or something.  
TG: what else did my dear sweet sister happen to casually mention  
EB: :X  
EB: gotta go!  
EB: see you tonight dave!

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 14:22 –

 

Holy shit. There were so many things wrong with that conversation. You shove your Mac onto the coffee table and sit back limply.

You made a new friend. Huh. Just like that. And your new friend wants you to go on a COMPLETELY HETEROSEXUAL date tonight. Huh. And apparently Rose let him in on some of your deep inner psyche stuff. Swell. Dandy. 

Fuck.

You grab your computer roughly and begin typing a message to Rose.

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 14:34 --

TG: hey sis  
TG: best sis  
TG: dear sister

tentacleTherapist [TT] is now an idle chum!

TG: fuck you  
TG: because not only do i have a new super duper best buddy  
TG: who invited me out of the blue to go watch hot men strip tonight  
TG: completely heterosexual bro date of course  
TG: he tells me that you flapped your red painted lips about my deepest darkest secrets  
TG: rose this is not one of your films  
TG: you cannot premiere my plush rump at sundance  
TG: although admittedly your ratings would fucking skyrocket with my hot piece of ass spread out all over your movie  
TT: Oh wow.  
TT: Just stop.  
TG: here the whole time it fucking figures  
TT: I was merely trying to speed up your narrative a bit.  
TT: You are so cagey about letting people in.  
TT: So I did it for you.  
TG: you let egbert in  
TG: he just whistled a cute fucking tune and rang the doorbell  
TG: oh hello john  
TG: let me take your coat  
TG: dave's soul is over there laying naked on the couch  
TG: why don't you two get acquainted  
TT: Your preoccupation with him seeing you naked aside, he seems really interested in you.   
TT: He thinks you're cool, even through my efforts to convince him otherwise.  
TG: ahahahahah  
TG: fuck you  
TG: what all did you tell him  
TT: Only that you aren't as cold as you seem. And that you are constantly second guessing yourself.  
TG: no  
TG: no that is not how i work you don't understand  
TT: I think I understand you better than you do sometimes.  
TG: you sure as hell fucking think you do  
TT: Just give it a try. Go to the movie with John tonight.  
TG: rose this is hard for me  
TG: also how did you know i was going to the movie i just said male strippers  
TT: John mentioned it.  
TG; you two are in fucking cahoots  
TG: operation get dave a buddy is going so smoothly  
TG: if this crashes and burns i am blaming you  
TT: So you actually want it to succeed then?  
TT: Interesting.  
TG: bye rose  
TG: oh and  
TG: fuck you

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 14:51 --

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 14:52 –

TT: Make sure that you fill me in!  
TT: <3

\-- tentacleTherapist  [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 14:53 –

\------------------------------------

A few hours and a sweltering subway ride later, you are in front of Regal Union Square, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar. Where the fuck is Egderp. Its almost 7:15. You glance around then check your phone. He hasn't messaged you. You've scrolled through your pesterlog three times already to see if you went to the wrong theater. Nope.

Its 7:19 and you're about to abscond the fuck out of here when a rushed voice from your left calls “Dave!”

Your stomach does a small flop and you take a second to compose yourself before sending a two finger wave at John.

“Geez, sorry I'm late. I got in so much traffic and people can't drive here.”

“Its cool man.” 

“Hold on, let me grab us some press badges and we can get seated. Its a private showing so it won't be that crowded.”

He flashes some ID at the ticket clerk and points at you. She prints two tickets which he grabs, then rushes inside. He's pretty flustered and you can feel the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upwards slightly. His hair is miraculously even messier than it was yesterday, and you see him try to flatten it with his hand once or twice. He fails miserably.

You weren't quite sure what to wear for this little date, since it was kind of a work thing for him. You went with some navy cords and a red button-down. Luckily he didn't seem to be all that formal. His khaki slacks were unpressed and you could see a bit of a coffee stain on the green polo he was sporting. He's carrying a leather satchel that is presumably holding his paperwork. Its not a very masculine look. You smirk a bit.

The film was on a screen at the end of the complex, so by the time you make to some seats in the very back row, its 7:25 exactly. He flops down into a seat near the middle of the row and you sit next to him. The bastard immediately steals the armrest.

“Whew, made it.” He opens up his satchel and yanks out a few disheveled papers, then a tape recorder. “Gotta do my ID, just hang tight a sec.”

He clears his throat and presses record. “This is John Egbert, New York Times, sitting in on Magic Mike 2.” He shoots you a mischievous grin. “Oh and Dave's here. Say hi Dave.”

“Sup.” 

He continues: “Director, Steven Soderbergh; Film length: 113 minutes. Looking forward to it!” He clicks the recorder off, ejects the tape, then shoves them both in his bag. 

He fumbles around for a pen and removes the cap with his teeth, then scratches a few things into the empty spaces on a rumpled paper. 

As he's working, you glance around the seats. The theater is only about about half full, and you note with a smirk that its all ladies. Except you and Egbert of course. 

Your brain supplies 7:30 as the time, and you're kind of ready to get this show on the road or stripper pole or whatever. “So, you know anyone else here?” 

John looks up and glances around. He still has the pen cap in his mouth, so he talks around it. “Theh nnly peple I knnw her er frem theh Timeth.” He frowns a bit. “They dnnt like me mush though.” He finishes up his notes and tries to recap the pen, but misses and marks a line of ink on his cheek. He rubs at it absentmindedly.

“Why? I mean you pirouetted off the goddamn happy train from Care-A-Lot.”

“Says the guy who skinned grumpy bear and uses his pelt as a cardigan.”

“You will not win an argument against me concerning Care Bears, I guarantee it.”

“Fine.” He grins for a moment, but his face falls as he starts to speak: “To answer your question though, I guess I'm young for a critic. I'll take pretty much any movie, so I get to write a ton of columns.”

He frowns and looks at his knees. “I work my ass off actually. I normally do ten to twelve full reviews a month, as well as side bits on actors and directors and industry stuff. A bunch of the senior guys in the department are divas quite honestly and they only wanna review the premium flicks. These same guys also don't like the fact that I get more columns than they do.” 

He shifts kind of uncomfortably, and his arm brushes yours. “I try not to let it get me down though. It really is a dream job cause I just get to watch movies all the time.”

He looks a little crestfallen, so you nudge his arm with your elbow. He perks up and squints at you.

“Anyway, aren't you gonna take off your sunglasses? I mean its a dark movie theater. You can't be that committed to the coolguy persona.”

“Nah, the shades stay on.” You don't admit that, without your aviators, the light from the film would reduce you to clawing at your eyes in a sobbing puddle on the floor.

“They make you look like a tool.”

“Well yours make you look like a huge dork.”

“Hey I actually need mine to see.”

“So do I.”

He looks like he's about to question you on that last statement, but thankfully the lights begin to dim, and he grins broadly instead. “Oh man, this is gonna be so sweet.”

“If you say so.”

The the next 113 minutes of of pure unadulterated man-thong have you audibly groaning with the awkwardness of it all. John shooshes you on several occasions, and is constantly making little scribbles in his notebook without looking away from the film. He has the decency to avert his eyes slightly at a revealing but cleverly shot scene starring Tatum's groin, though every time McConaughey is on-screen he practically squirms with delight. The movie is predictably terrible but John enjoys it thoroughly. When the credits role he seems to forget about you for a good five minutes as he frantically documents his fresh overall reaction to the film.

He finally looks up and sighs. “That was awesome, I'm so glad they left it open for a third one.”

“Egbert that was the worst fucking film I've ever seen.”

“Then you obviously haven't seen enough movies.” He laughs. “I'll even admit that there are some really terrible ones floating around. Not as many as people think though.”

“Name one.”

“The American remake of Death at a Funeral starring Chris Rock. I wasn't doing reviews then but seriously it was so bad.”

You just stare at him. He laughs again and gathers his things, shoving papers into his satchel all askew. You stand, stretching your arms and cracking your spine all the way up.

John wrinkles his nose at you. “Dude that's gross! Put your body where it needs to go, all the popping freaks me out.”

You tilt your head suddenly and crack your neck. He shudders and pushes you into the aisle.

You make it outside and John stops near the ticket booth. “Where are you parked? Maybe we're headed in the same direction.”

Your stomach churns a bit. “Oh, I didn't. Took the sub. You know, gotta be environmentally friendly, suck a dolphin's dick or some shit.”

He laughs. “Whoa, how long did it take?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“Geez. You should've just driven, the dolphins would've forgiven you I think.”

“Yea well, I don't exactly have a car.”

“Oh.” He contemplates a moment. “Well I can give you a ride, we can grab food or something on the way.”

“You don't need to do that.”

He shrugs. “But I want to. C'mon, lets go!” He grabs the rolled-up cuff of your sleeve and begins tugging you towards the parking garage. You can't really disagree at this point.

\------------------------------------

“Egbert this menu isn't in English, how am I supposed to know what kind of shit I'm ordering?”

“Uh well, do you like meat, tomatoes, peppers, some other ambiguous vegetables, and bread?”

“It sounds vague enough to be good I guess”

“Alright, Ethiopian food is done family style so I'll just order some of that stuff for the both of us.”

“K.”

He calls over the waiter and spits out a few garbled phrases as he points at the menu. When the food comes out its salty, meaty paste with some flatbread and vegetables. You sample tentatively, finding a pile of veggies and beef that you don't find particularly offensive.

You both chow down in relative silence, though he seems to enjoy the spread more than you do. You aren't very adventurous with food, mostly because its not cost effective. Taco Bell and take-out Chinese are about as ethnic as you get.

The waiter drops the check by about half-way through your meal, and you try to inconspicuously scope it out. John immediately snatches it up.

“Nope, this was my choice, so I've got it.”

You place a hand over your forehead mock-swooning. “Oh John, I knew this was a date.”

He regards you hotly. “Stop messing around so loudly, people will hear you.”

“So what.”

“So whatever.” He looks exasperated, so you lay off. He shoves a piece of injera into his mouth.

“Really dude, I don't mind going dutch.”

“No, I owe you for coming with me tonight.” He looks almost guilty. “I know you weren't exactly thrilled about the copious amounts of Tatum ass.”

“Not the worst way I could spend my Saturday night.”

He continues. “I know it was kinda weird, me asking you even though we just met and stuff. Rose just said it would do us both good, whatever that's supposed to mean.”

You take a sip of water and scoff at the rim of the glass. “My dear sister loves to have her manicured fingers in everything.”

“Yea, I've noticed. I kinda owe her too though, she was one of the first people I met when I moved here, and she helped me out a lot.”

“Seems to be a trend.”

“Yea I guess.” He smiles wryly. “I'm lucky that she liked the review I did for her film.”

“Which one did you see?”

“Faltering Coup”

You groan. “Her meta-feminist autobiographical art flick. Figures.”

“It wasn't that bad. She's not that bad. You should give her more credit.”

“Not a chance.”

“At least you have family here, mine's a whole country away in Washington.” His mouth tightens. “My dad's never really been on his own before. I talk to him a lot, but I still worry some. I miss home a lot.”

He looks at you for a response, and your throat tightens. You really suck at offering condolences. And at divulging personal information. You settle for information. “Yea well, my Bro wasn't too happy about me leaving either. But he understood, cause a Strider's gotta spread his wings.”

“Where did you two live before you moved?”

“Houston.”

“Texas?” His grin is enormous and you scowl at it.

“Yea. Problem?”

“No, its just. You don't have an accent or anything. And you don't seem like much of a cowboy.”

“I'm going to assume that all your experience with Texas comes from a show starring Chuck Norris, and that you received one too many vicarious roundhouse kicks to your reasoning hemisphere.”

“Geez, touchy. Its just not what I was expecting.” He leans towards you over the table. “I'll bet you could do a bit of a drawl if you tried.”

“There are two instances in which I will drawl for you. One involves hard liquor and the other involves less clothes. Take your pick. I'll warn you though, both scenarios likely lead to the same outcome.”

“Forget I asked.” 

The waiter soon comes by to collect the bill, and the two of you exit the restaurant. There's a fairly strong breeze rippling between the buildings, and it musses John's hair further. Surprisingly, it makes his mop look better than any attempts at styling did. Windswept is a good look for him. 

The ride to your apartment is non-eventful. You pick at his taste of music, he calls you a dirty hipster. You say the stereotype has been used to the point of cliché, but its not old enough to be ironic. He questions your definition of irony. Its lighthearted banter, and you realize as you get out of his car that the whole night has been far too easy.

You watch him drive away, feeling almost betrayed. Striders don't just give up the goods.

As much as you don't want to give her the satisfaction, you figure that you ought to update Rose. You wait until you're in bed though, so she can't pester you for every detail.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 1:04 --

TG: i hope you're satisfied  
TT: John said it went well.  
TG: it did  
TT: How was he?  
TG: he spurned my advances like a delicate maid   
TG: fanning himself profusely at my boorish male agenda  
TT: He isn't a homosexual.  
TG: yes i've heard  
TT: So you actually did try to come onto him?  
TT: I knew it.  
TG: no rose  
TG: just messed with the guy a bit  
TG: not quite my type  
TT: Say whatever you like to set your mind at ease.  
TG: i'm not having this argument with you  
TG: you got to play sick puppetmaster  
TG: and lord over us for a night  
TG: now its over  
TG: god why am i always up to my ass in puppets  
TT: You're using plural pronouns to describe the two of you.  
TT: It must be more serious than you're letting on.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 1:10 --


	3. not-a-homosexual parisian douche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the adults do adult things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> putting this up now, will prolly check again for typos tomorrow enjoy pls

The next Friday morning you are roused from saccharine dreamland by the sound of your phone vibrating violently on the nightstand. You grab it blindly, fumbling with the lock button and squinting painfully at the bright screen. The number doesn't have a contact listed, but you're feeling awfully spiteful towards the caller. You answer it, fully intending to spew verbal wrath at the unsuspecting telemarketer or whatever poor soul has the gnads to call you at this ungodly hour.

“'Lo.” Your sleep-heavy tongue seems to be doing more harm than good for your articulation, so the word fragment comes out as more of a grunt. So much for wrath.

“Dave I'm fucking sorry to call you but I called Rose and she was busy and she said to call you and I swear if I don't talk to someone right now I am going to go fucking postal on the entire department!" 

Its John. He sounds angry. Or, at least you take that he's angry from the context. His voice is about an octave higher than usual, and the words tumble out in a barely coherent slurry. 

“Slo'down Egbert, what's your malfunction?”

He takes a huge breath: “Its my shit-for-brains boss, and the assholes I work with. They aren't gonna run my review in the physical paper because this one guy thought that the formatting for HIS article would be too narrow. And my boss just went along with it! Do you know what he said to me when I asked why? He fucking said “Its called seniority asswipe,” and just walked away! Left me hanging in the middle of the floor with everyone staring. I swear sometimes I need a smoking habit.”

“You can borrow mine.” You almost want to laugh. The situation sucks, but angry John seems akin to a frustrated puppy. Unfortunately, he's asking for some sort of response, and you have no fucking clue how to make him feel better. “Well has this happened before? I mean, they can't put everything in newsprint right, it still goes up on the website and shit.”

“Yea I've been rejected before, but they tell you ahead of time whether the article is good enough to be included. They gave me the green light on this one so I check the Arts, see that its not there, and then my boss embarrasses me in front of the entire floor.”

His voice cracks on the last statement, and you realize too late that your line of questioning probably only made things worse. Smooth job Strider. Goddamn Rose why couldn't you just talk to him.

You grit your teeth and ask another question. “What time do you get off today? We could get drinks or something.”

“5:00. But Dave, you don't have to, I honestly feel better just being able to say this stuff out loud.”

Got him. You click your tongue into the receiver. “Here I am asking you out, putting my perky ass on the line, and you go off and try to reject the offer. I'm hurt Egbert, really.” 

He groans in exasperation. “Shut up, I'll swing by your apartment after work.”

“You got it babe.”

\-------------------

John is great at parallel parking. You have no idea how he effortlessly squeezes his blue Sentra into the space in front of Morray's but he barely even seems to think about it. You get out of the car, and whistle softly.

“Damn Egbert how'd you fit all that car into that itty bitty little space.”

He's in an irritable mood, and snaps back. “How did you fit those chicken legs into your glorified denim pantyhose.”

“More importantly, how did I fit my di - ” He elbows you in the ribs as he passes to the door of the bar. You follow him, grinning smugly from the corner of you mouth.

Morray's is a smoky pub, dark and atmospheric, with bassy jazz crackling from ancient speakers and booths with tall backs. You point John to a seat in the corner across from the bar. 

“What do you want, round's on me.”

He shrugs. “A beer I guess. I like Fat Tire.”

“Prissy beer, can't find a Shiner anywhere in this damn city.”

“What.”

You sigh over-dramatically. “Go sit down Egbert, don't get too lonely while I'm gone.”

You order drinks, and the man behind the bar says that he'll bring them over in a few minutes. You head back to the booth and slide in across from John. He's still wearing his clothes from work, a plain black suit with a loosened green tie and a wrinkled white dress shirt.

“So.” You look pointedly in his direction. He's busy tearing up a napkin and gnawing on his bottom lip. After a few seconds, he looks up at you. The dim half-neon lighting tints his cobalt eyes almost black. 

“So what.”

“I guess, how are things?” You act as nonchalantly as you can muster, but this standoffish attitude is a departure from your normal interactions. 

“Fine.” He begins tearing at the napkin again.

“Ok then.” If he doesn't want to talk about it, you sure as hell aren't gonna make him. You pull a pack of Camel Menthols from your shirt pocket, then flip open the lid with your thumb and grab a cigarette.

When you offer the pack to John, you expect him to wrinkle his nose and call you gross. Instead, he smirks slightly and replies “I guess.” He takes a cigarette, puts it in his mouth, then lights it with a match from the book on the table. He takes a deep drag and exhales with a cough. “Bluh, I haven't smoked since college.”

“You? A smoker?” You feign shock. “Would have never guessed.”

“Socially only.” He inhales slowly and blows a smoke ring. “I did learn that trick though.” A small grin spreads across his face. You light your own cig and blow smoke into his face.

He coughs and glares at you. “Never Menthol though. I don't know how you can smoke that minty stuff all the time.”

“Bro smokes Menthol cigs.” The statement sort of catches in your mouth, and you wonder what the hell you're doing. “They remind me of him I guess.”

John looks surprised by the personal nature of your statement. You two had been talking pretty much constantly online since last Saturday, but not once had you mentioned Bro or other things of a more personal nature. “Does he smoke a lot?”

“Like a goddamn chimney. Fucker's gonna get black lung before too long, if he hasn't already.” You flick ashes into the tray on the table. “I used to steal packs from him when I was younger. He was so pissed when he found out, kicked my ass all across the roof before sitting me down for a severe chat about personal health.” You take a drag. “Thought he was being a hypocritical asshole at the time, but yea, Menthol.”

Your cheeks feel flushed and you are so glad that the dim lighting and your shades cover it. John is grinning like a douche. You're about to tell him where exactly he can shove the rest of that cigarette when a server arrives with drinks. He places John's beer, as well as six shots and a fluorescent green cocktail on the table.

“Egbert if you don't close your mouth then I'll close it for you.”

“What is all this, I told you I wanted a beer.” He points at the cocktail glass. “And what the fuck is that?”

“Mine. Appletini.” You take the drink and sip it daintily.

“Dude could you get any more gay.”

“Absolutely.” You reach over the table and trace his jawline with your index finger. He pulls back, but laughs. “Point taken. But why.”

“Hey now, I agreed to be your DD, but that doesn't mean I can't have one cocktail.”

“I wasn't planning on drinking enough to need a designated driver.” He eyes the shots warily. “What are these?”

“Three Grey Goose, three Cuervo.”

He just stares at you. “I don't drink all that often.”

“Its Friday night, c'mon Egbert.”

"This is a lot of alcohol Dave." He looks resigned, and reaches out to grab the glass closest to him. “Don't want my beer to get warm I guess.”

He takes a deep breath and proceeds to throw back all six shots one by one, then gulps the beer as a chaser. Its your turn to sit there gawking.

“Egbert, why in the everloving fuck did you do that so fast.”

He laughs “Beer before liquor, never been sicker, liquor before beer, you're in the clear.”

“Dude that precious nursery rhyme is completely voided when there's tequila involved.”

“Oops.”

It takes about until he's finished his cigarette for the booze to hit his system. You expected a giggle fit, but not the giggle fit to end all motherfucking giggle fits. He finally calms down, and wipes the tears threatening to fog his glasses. 

“Oh MAN that w'sstupid.” He burps quietly, and you sip your appletini to hide what was threatening to break into an enormous smile.

You decide to take advantage of his uninhibited state. “So, wanna talk about what happened today?”

“FUCK.” He holds up a finger and swigs his beer. “S'the editor of the film reviews'section is named Karkat Vantas, and he's a COMPLETE. ASS. HOLE. , not to mention the uncontested KING. OF. DOOOUCHE.” He pauses dramatically and then slams his hand on the table. “I jus'dont get that guy! Uh mean, he'ssone that hired me, longest interview of my fucking LIFE, spent two hours talking 'bout romantic comedy, then he goes n'pulls shit like today in front of EVERYONE.” He crosses his arms and sticks out his bottom lip. 

“Karkat? What kind of name is that.”

“Is'mom prolly hated him s'much as I do, HIC.” John is starting to slump over and lean against the wall, and you have the fleeting notion that this wasn't such a good idea. He keeps talking though.

“I'dunno maybe my review wasn't as good 's I'thought.” He shrugs into the wall. Oh hell no, there is no way that you're gonna deal with drunksobbing Egbert.

“Nah dude, I read it online. It had just the proper balance of sophistication and veiny cock.”

He snorts loudly, and covers his laughter with his hand. “MAN, how'd I not meet you sooner, you're ridic . . . ridHICulous.” 

“What can I say, I'm beating off the bitches with a stick. You're lucky you know a guy who got you in without waiting in line.”

“Know a gal!”

“Know a guy,” you repeat.

John's face is flushed a pale pink, and the contrast with his eyes is more attractive than you'd like to admit. The two of you talk about trivial things for about an hour, until John lets loose a particularly loud instance of the word 'cocksucker', and the bartender nods his head for you to leave. John’s really out of it at this point, and by the time you've come back from paying the bar tab, he's slumped over the table with his head between his hands.

“C'mon Egbert, I'm not gonna carry you outta here.” He groans and tries to stand, but falls against you. Taking his right arm across your shoulder, you guide him to the door and out to his car.

“Keys.” You hold out your hand. He points at his left-front pocket. “Pull them out.” John just shakes his head. “Christ Egbert, you're gonna make this so fucking difficult.” You stick your hand into his pocket as unobtrusively as you can. He starts giggling and you can feel your face flushing. 

You find the keys, unlock the car, and shove him in the passenger's seat. He immediately slumps into the window. You slide in the drivers side and adjust the mirror and steering wheel.

“Dude, what's your address?” You had planned on driving him home and catching a cab.

“I'dnno”

“John, seriously, where do you live.”

He groans and throws an arm over his face. Goddamn. You whip out your phone type a quick message to Rose.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 23:17 -- 

TG: where does john live  
TG: need an address  
TT: Are you going to swoop in and profess your adoration?  
TT: You might consider playing it closer to the vest.  
TG: whoops there go the last remaining shreds of my sanity  
TG: now lalonde  
TT: I don't actually know where he lives, he's only ever been to my house.  
TG: i am going to implode  
TT: Why do you need to know so suddenly?  
TG: tl;dr john was having a bad day so i took him out for drinks  
TG: now he’s smashed and doesn’t know where he lives  
TT: John barely drinks. How much could he have had?  
TG: try seven drinks in about half an hour  
TT: Oh lord.   
TT: Why did you let him have that many?  
TG: i just bought him the shots didn’t expect him to up and take them all in one go  
TT: He was trying to impress you. You shouldn’t have pressured him.  
TG: I DIDN’T PRESSURE HIM ROSE  
TG: fuck this conversation is getting nowhere at the goddamn speed of light  
TT: Well, what are you going to do?  
TG: i was hoping that you would have an answer  
TT: Why don’t you just take him back to your apartment?  
TG: i am hesitant to have a blackout egbert in my bedroom for multiple reasons  
TT: Don’t worry, from what you have described, he’s far too drunk to explore any deeply buried sexual preferences.  
TT: And you have too much self-doubt to try anything that may not end positively.  
TG: thanks sis best pep talk ever

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 23:26 -- 

You sigh heavily and look over at the slumped figure in the passenger’s seat. “John, last time, where do you live.”

He groans into the crook of his elbow, then lifts his head long enough to sputter out the phrase " _Casse-toi._ "

Welp, there goes his English. "John. I’m gonna take you to my place ok? Just hang tight til we get there." He mumbles more of what you think is French, and smashes his cheek against the window.

It takes you about twenty drive and reverse cycles to get out of John’s fantastic parallel parking job and onto the road. You haven’t driven at all since you moved. Not that driving John’s foreign car across the grid of New York was anything like driving Bro’s beat-up old Ford along Houston’s clusterfuck of a freeway system. But still. You accelerate too fast and brake too hard, and John mutters what you think are curses the entire way. 

You realize once you’ve parked and attempted to stand John up that he basically just sucks at walking right now. Seven flights of stairs are not going to agree with his current condition, so you pick him up and very ungracefully dump him over your left shoulder. He’s got broader shoulders and a bigger frame than you do, so you have to compensate your balance heavily. By the third floor, you’re breathing hard, and by the time you make it to your apartment, you've make a mental note to get up on the roof and kick the crap out of yourself. You throw the door open and stagger to your bedroom, tripping over dirty piles of clothes and a few mangled electronic wires. 

Approaching your bed, you lean over to lay him down as gently as you can manage, but he clutches onto the back of your shirt. You almost fall on top of him but manage to wrench him from your shoulder. Once he’s down you grab underneath his armpits and haul him up so that he’s laying correctly on the bed.  


"John, do you need anything else ?"

He raises his hand and motions for you to come closer, and you lean over his forehead. You almost jump backwards when he raises his head and kisses both of your cheeks. " _Merci._ " he slurs before collapsing and passing out onto the pillow.

You straighten up slowly and run your fingers through your hair. 

"Mercy."

Since your bed is otherwise occupied, you lay down on the couch. The fuck even was that John? Your mind is buzzing uncontrollably. Not-a-homosexual Parisian douche. There’s a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach that’s driving you insane, and you keep imagining that stupid bucktoothed grin and the contrast of a light blush with deep blue irises. Fuck it.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 00:57 -- 

TG: you win  
TG: i like the guy  
TG: goddamnit

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 00:58 -- 


	4. hidden treasure on strider island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hangover city the cuties basically just lay in bed and talk about EXPOSITON o:B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there's prolly typos ill fix em later i promise to get to some legit smoochin soon

Who the fuck are you kidding, you're not getting any sleep tonight.

Every time you feel yourself slipping into some semblance of dreamland, the bastard in your bedroom groans or rolls over or makes some sort of noise that slaps you back into reality. Of course, its not like you're hyper aware of the minute details of his breathing patterns or anything like that. No way.

After five rounds of sleeptease, you finally decide to give it up. Its 4:37am, and John's not gonna be awake until early afternoon at least. You fleetingly hope that he didn't have any plans for this morning. 

When you move to a sitting position on the couch, the muscles in your legs ache dully from hauling John up the stairs. Shit. You remember your self-promise from last night, and figure that some sword training will probably pass the time faster than sitting on your ass over-analyzing things will. 

Your katana is leaning in its usual place against corner near the door. You grab it, slinging the holster over your back. The main set of stairs in your building doesn't go up to roof because of some bullshit safety code. However, its easy enough to crawl out the living room window and onto the fire escape. You feel a bit like Spiderman gone to the fucking Renaissance festival, but whatever, its dark and no one can see when you accidentally look down at the street below, then clutch onto the railing for dear life.

You make it up to the roof without doing a fucking pirouette off the side of the fire escape. Its cold enough that you're glad you didn't change into workout clothes. Unlike in Houston, the temperature here apparently drops at night. You glance up at the sky. The combination of all the lights and the barrier of your shades prevent any stars from showing through the layers of smog. The buildings and searchlights glimmer artificially in the darkness, but supply enough ambient light that you don't trip over yourself as you set up your practice rig.

Your going-away present from Bro was a spindly mechanical device about the size of a toaster oven. He'd looked so fucking proud of the thing, and you think in hindsight that you might've hurt his feelings when you'd asked what it was. “Skeet thrower. It throws targets. For skeet shooters.” You'd snorted at this point, and he'd crossed his arms. “Built this one myself, modified to throw frisbees.” You still hadn't understood the purpose of the thing until he proceeded to get you up on the roof and basically kick your ass three ways to Mexico. After the fight, as you were licking at your wounds, he had just laughed and said that maybe your skill level was more suited for fighting frisbees. Asshole.

Since moving, you've tried to hone your skills on the thing. It spits out discs at remarkably high rates, changing the angle and direction of flight. When you first started using it, the machine would so regularly shoot frisbees directly into your gut that you entertained the idea that Bro had infused it with some sort of motion detection technology. After thorough examination turned up nothing, you realized that Bro simply designed the mechanical components to run in a loop of your usual strife pattern. 

It came as a shock to you that A) you were so predictable and B) Bro was so aware of your predictability. You've long since figured out the pattern of the machine, but you still actively try to find creative ways of working around its feed. 

You set the spring for the launcher, and then flip it into motion, standing opposite where you know it will begin shooting. The first frisbee sails fluorescent green into the early morning, and you launch yourself into the air to strike it down, avoiding the path of the next one as it flies past your right ear. The launcher holds fifty discs, and your game is to not lose any over the side of the roof. You haven't had to retrieve one for at least a month.

You reload the machine twice, making sure that you try different patterns of attack during each round. The sun comes up over the tips of the buildings just as you strike down the final disc. You collect the pieces of plastic neon scattered around the gravel of the rooftop and shove them back into the deactivated machine. 

The sky is wholly light now, and you stand near the edge of the roof, contemplating the bustle below. After a few minutes a breeze rustles past your sweaty brow, and you realize how totally shōnen you're looking with your sword in hand. You shimmy back down the fire escape before someone calls the fangirls.

\-------------------------------

You absolutely reek; a shower is a necessity before you'll be able to live with yourself. 

You set down your katana and pad into the bedroom. John is spread-eagle on top of your sheets, his mouth hanging completely slack, and making noise like a goddamn Snorlax is trapped in this throat. You allow yourself a genuine grin and a pang of something sharp in your chest. After grabbing sweatpants and a t-shirt as quietly as you can, you hit the shower, thankful that the bathroom branches off of the living area and not your bedroom.

By the time you finish showering, its only 8:16. You figure that John is gonna have a raging hangover when he wakes up. Thankfully, earlier in the week you actually bought some groceries with Rose's pity check. You make some instant coffee for yourself, then set into Operation Resuscitate Egbert.

You burn five pancakes before you've got the fire low enough to cook them properly. Just-add-water dry pancake mix is harder to work than you were expecting. Not to mention the fact that you have to flip the fuckers with a knife and a fork, cause you have no idea where the spatula is, if you ever had one. You eat the burned ones cause you're hella hungry, and slathering them with syrup masks the char. 

At 9:24, you've got a sizable stack of pancakes cooling on the counter, and you've washed out the dishes you managed to dirty. An abrupt groan from your room reaches your ears, followed by a loud and colorful symphony crafted exclusively of the word 'shit'.

Damn, he's up earlier than you were expecting. You walk over to your bedroom and lean on the doorframe. John's glasses are pushed up to his forehead, and his right hand is palming his face. Crap, you must have forgotten to take his square frames off last night. They look only slightly crooked.

“Morning sleeping beauty.”

He tenses up at the sound of your voice, but relaxes when he peeks through his fingers and sees you standing there. 

His lips barely move as he mumbles. “Strider. Thank god. I didn't know where the hell I was.”

“Welcome to my bedroom, I see you two have already gotten acquainted.”

He groans again, obviously not really up for taking any of your bullshit. “Where's your bathroom. I need to piss.”

You nod your head sideways. “Off the living room.”

He slowly moves to a sitting position, and takes a few deep breaths with his head in his hands. You want to help him up, but experience tells you to let him do his thing, otherwise he'll be blowing yesterday's dinner all over your floor. He finally stands and pushes past you, stumbling into the bathroom and shutting the door.

You head back to the kitchen. Bro has a bitchtits miraculous hangover cure recipe that he taught you to prepare from a very young age. You grab a shot glass and pull out two liquor bottles from the cabinet. You layer some tequila and some Irish whiskey into the glass, then grab a bottle of Tabasco sauce and shake some into the mix. Finally, you add a pinch of salt and swirl the concoction with your finger. It turns a vague shade of orange.

You grab the plate of pancakes and the shot glass, as well as a bottle of water, and head back into your room. John is still in the bathroom, and you guess that he's probably upturning the contents of his stomach. 

You sit on the bed and prop your back up against the wall, setting the plate of pancakes on the floor.

John comes back in a few minutes, wiping his mouth. He collapses face-first on the bed next to you.

“Bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.” His voice is muffled by the bed sheets.

“Sit up Egbert, I've got some shit for you.”

He slowly rolls into his back and pulls himself up so that he's sitting next to you. You hold out the shot glass.

“Oh no. I'm not doing any more of that junk. Nope nope nope.”

“Calm your tits, its Bro's hangover recipe. Just drink it.”

He is either softened by your mention of Bro, or just desperate for some relief. Either way takes the glass and tips it back. His ultra-expressive face goes through the gambit of shock (for the alcohol content), to revulsion (because the shit actually tastes like it came from the back of a toilet), then panic (spicy).

“Hot. Its hot. What the fuck did you feed me.” He begins fanning the inside of his mouth with his hand. You give him the bottle of water and he takes a few gulps. Drinking the liquid quickly must upset his stomach again, because he slides down and rests his head on your pillow.

“Its not that bad dude.”

“Yes it is.” He closes his eyes. “What even happened last night.”

“Short version: you drank all the booze, spilled your guts about this Vantas douche, then conveniently forgot where you lived.”

“Oops.”

“No fuck oops. I had to haul your ass up seven fucking flights of stairs.”

“Sorry.” He opens his eyes and stares at you, looking genuinely guilty. Damn it Strider.

“Nah. It was actually pretty hilarious. Plus . . .” You smirk at him. “I even got a goodnight kiss.” You pantomime his gesture from last night, adding an intentionally mispronounced “merci” for good measure.

He slams his hand over his face again. “Shit.”

“In fact,” you continue, “you spoke quite a bit of French last night, _Monsieur Egbert_.”

He sits in silence for a minute or so. “The only time in my life I've ever done a lot of partying was when I studied abroad in France.”

“A regular party animal.”

“ _Un fêtard_.”

“I have no idea whether you're cussing me out or proposing marriage.”

“Cursing in French is more fun.” He smiles, but it turns into a grimace.

“So you go all berets and croissants when you've got some drink in you, noted.”

“Yea, I guess. A croissant would probably do me some good right now actually, if I could get it down.”

“Well, you're sort of in luck.” You reach down to the floor and take the plate, placing it in the middle of the bed.

John's eyes widen. “Dude, you made me pancakes?”

“Yep, you should've seen me in my little apron.”

He tears off a small piece of the top pancake, and shoves it in his mouth. “Not bad.”

“You mean one-hundred percent perfection.”

“I mean, I'd rather have a croissant, but this was super cool of you.”

You reach over and flick his ear. He elbows your leg.

“So, you still feeling like upchucking all the meals you ever had?”

“I feel like someone rammed the Eiffel Tower into my forehead. But actually, kind of less bad I think since I took that shot of sewage.”

“Told you.”

“Its still gross.” He takes a drink from the bottle of water. “And my mouth still kinda burns.”

“Are you really that sensitive to spice? Crap Egbert its just Tabasco.”

“I have a tender palate.”

“Christ. You would never be able to deal with Bro's cooking. He put spicy shit on everything. Even when we ordered in, which was all the goddamn time, he'd slather whatever it was in hot sauce.”

“You miss your brother a lot, don't you?”

You turn your head suddenly to look at him. The simple question seems to burrow inside your chest. 

“No way. That guy's an asshole.” You spit it out more angrily than you intended.

“Ok, ok, sorry. I get that you have this cool ironic emotionless thing going on.”

Fuck. “No. I mean its fine. I guess I do miss the dude. He just had a very specific lifestyle and way of doing damn near everything.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, my dad has sent me three cakes in the mail this month so far.”

You chuckle at his look of exasperated derision. “Try naked puppets.”

“What.”

“Naked puppets with giant protruding asses waking you up in the middle of the night and falling from cabinets and hiding in the couch cushions and oh look you stepped on another goddamn puppet.”

“I'm still not following.”

Your mouth is dry. The only friend that knows about the smuppets is Rose, and she doesn't really fucking count. Ah fuck it.

“Bro runs a members-only puppet pornography site.”

“Um.” Your stomach churns. He's not doing anything. Oh god, he thinks you're a fucking lunatic.

Suddenly his face cracks into a grin and he's laughing hysterically, clutching his forehead and his stomach. It takes a minute for him to calm down, and the whole time you are just numbly staring at him.

“Geez, that's fucking great. I mean seriously creepy but also hilarious.” He rolls over onto his side facing you. “And he makes a living off this?”

“Yea. Gets traffic mostly from Japan, but he also sees a lot of hits from the great state of Utah.”

“Huh.”

“I know.”

“Well.” he pauses. “Well, whatever works I guess.”

“Yea.”

“So, if your brother has an established site, why didn't you just do photography for him? I mean I guess you probably had your heart set on doing art stuff.”

“Two reasons. One, if I ever see another smuppet again I will strangle it with my own intestines.”

“Gross dude.”

“Two: I'm not a shitty professional photographer.”

“What. But I thought that was your job.”

“It is. But its not what I fucking came here for.”

John smiles like he's discovered some hidden treasure on Strider Island.

“Well, what do you want to do.”

“First and foremost,” you push your shades up the bridge of you nose, “I'm a DJ.”

The bastard manages to grin wider. “Whoa dude, were you like Houston's DJ Strider in the morning?”

You mock disdain. “Not a radio DJ dunkass. Club DJ.” You nod in the direction of your audio equipment, which is currently set up in a jumbled heap of cords near your closet.

“Ok, so you're like . . .” he shakes his hands vaguely “wiggy wiggy wack.”

“Yes. But also no, no, not even in the same fucking solar system.”

“Right. Well, I mean I don't really go out to 'the club',” he puts air quotes around the phrase, “But I know NYC is a great place for that sort of thing.”

“I'll bet you just can't dance.”

“I can too dance. I just don't generally like sweaty people and top 40's remixes all up on me.”

“See, you've only been to shitty clubs then. I mean the sweating is pretty much a constant, but the music . . . ” You shrug.

“Honestly, I don't really know anything about that stuff. What kind of music is it that you do.”

“Some cut 'n paste hip-hop, some trance, ambient, splash in some electronica. Good electronica though not that dubstep bullshit that basically just uses the same beat pattern and only three lines and the most predictable goddamn drops.”

“Ok, you don't like dubstep.”

“Mainstream dubstep. Some of the underground stuff isn't bad.”

“That means nothing to me really.”

“I didn't think it would.”

“I thought DJs just played whatever music was popular and added extra bass.”

“Some do. There's a ton of techniques for cutting and mixing. Great DJs do it all live, shitty ones have the tracks already mastered with options when they need to vary their set. I guess I do something kind of in-between.”

You know that he doesn't get it, but that's fine, cause he's looking at you like you're the goddamn prince of the arctic or some shit. 

He rolls onto his back, and locks his fingers behind his head. “I would ask to hear some of your stuff, but I think you could probably use my pounding headache as a beat track.”

“I've got some ambient stuff. Give me a sec.” You slide off the bed and get your Mac from the coffee table. John has his eyes closed when you walk back in the room, and he's chewing on more pancake. You sit back on the bed, place your computer on your stomach, and wait for iTunes to load. 

You cue a track called “Iris4.” Its atmospheric, with constant dissonance bubbling under the surface. At twelve minutes, its one of your longer pieces. You look at John for signs that the noise is hurting his head, but he's just laying with his eyes closed, grinning like a huge dork.

“You made this?”

“Yea.”

“Its really . . . clever.”

“That's not the adjective I was expecting but ok.”

He sighs. “The progression and the way you shift the chordal relationships is clever. Plus the fact that most of the shifts are buried at least five layers deep. Its interesting.”

“Well yea. I thought you didn't know music.”

“I play piano.”

“Oh.”

“But also, its pretty beautiful.”

“Thanks babe.”

He shakes his head. “So why haven't you been DJing then, I don't get it.”

“My distinct impression of this fucking city is that the scene is pretty exclusive. Top it all off, I am my own booking agent, so we've got issues.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm what.”

“I guess I never thought about that stuff. I mean my career area is so straightforward, you find a job, you apply, you interview and hope to do well. A job where reputation and shit matters a lot, well that's so much harder.”

“Welcome to my world buttercup.”

He looks at you and chews on his bottom lip. “I'll keep my ears open. I mean I work in the Arts department, there's bound to be something.”

“Golly mister, you'd do that for me?”

“Sure. I sort of owe you.”

“Nah.”

The sound of a siren blows past outside. The noise seems to break whatever illusion the two of you had that the apartment was a bubble isolated from reality.

“Shit.” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair. You could probably submit his current coiffage to the international scientific community as proof that the laws of physics do not always hold steady.

“What time is it?” He raises his body to a half-sitting position and searches his pockets for his phone.

“12:03.”

“Wow, ok.” He unlocks his cell and scrolls through the notifications. You lean against him to look at the little Blackberry screen. Partly to be comical, and partly because you're curious, and another partly because you have no idea how in the hell he still smells as good as he does, considering.

“Jesus, how many emails do you get in one day?” His inbox is currently holding steady at 239 unread.

“Waaaay too many.” He locks his phone and sets it on his stomach. “I should probably be headed out soon.”

“Yea, I was hoping you didn't have any pressing plans this morning.”

“No thank god. But I do have lots of work to do.”

“Right, well, as long as you're not gonna need a barf bag for your drive home, you're probably fine.”

He slowly gets out of bed, taking deep breaths. You do the same, stretching your arms and cracking your back. John shudders at the popping noise.

You were arguably a shitty caretaker. His suit jacket is still on and rumpled, his glasses are crooked. You know you didn't take his shoes off for him, but they're kicked into the corner. He slips them on without undoing the dress laces.

“Don't forget your pancakes sweetie.” You hold the plate out to him. To your surprise, he takes one and folds it over, then slips it into the pocket of his dress shirt. 

“There.” He grins brightly, and you melt a little. He's adorable, goddamnit. 

“Alright dude, I'm gonna go.” He looks at you a little awkwardly, then walks over and wraps you in a very masculine bro hug. You have no idea what to do with your arms or anything, so you pat his back.

He pulls back and smiles mischievously. “ _Merci_ ,” he pronounces, and kisses both of your cheeks.

Your mouth drops opens, and you have to remember to close it when the bastard starts laughing at you.

“C'mon, now you're just fucking with me.”

“Maybe.” You walk with him all twenty steps to the apartment door.

“I'll pester you when I get home.”

“Sweet.” He opens the door and steps out into the hallway.

“Bye coolkid!”

You wave him off with two fingers and a smirk, and watch his back retreating down the stairs.

Damnit Egbert.


	5. menthol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dj strider in the nightclub holla (smooch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry this took so long finals period and whatnot its a little bit extra long to make up for it

Be damned, he actually did it. 

“I'll see you on Saturday then Mr. Strider!”

“Thank you ma'am. Looking forward to it.” You hang up your phone, but before you can even set it down to process, you get a notification from pesterchum.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 13:05--

EB: hi dave!    
TG: i could hear you giggling in the background you know   
TG: you can't even begin to be discreet with a cacklebox like that   
TG: your face is basically a giant dork kazoo   
EB: dumbass, you are currently mocking the man who scored you a job.   
TG: oops   
TG: well i guess   
TG: thank you   
TG: a lot   
TG: i owe you one like i'll buy you dinner or drinks or a coupon for one free strider massage   
TG: play your cards right and i'll make that a deep tissue massage   
EB: we'll see.   
EB: but jade said your gig was set, right?   
TG: yeah kinda short notice but whatever   
TG: where did you even find someone willing to give me a go   
EB: jade's a good friend of mine, she's a critic with the music department.   
EB: i basically did her job for her, so its not a big deal.   
TG: not a big deal    
TG: huh   
EB: well, they are always looking to report on up-and-coming new artists.   
EB: and i know she will give you a good review, because i told her to.   
TG: butter my buns and call me a biscuit   
TG: anything in particular that this lovely lady would like to see in a set   
EB: she likes bass...   
EB: lots of bass.   
TG: noted   
TG: guess that means i get to bust out some of my old scratching fodder   
EB: you're gonna go old school then?   
TG: old/new   
TG: bottom line is   
TG: i'm going to do some schooling   
EB: you are the professor. its you.   
TG: damn straight   
TG: got a class full of rowdy wave patterns   
TG: keepin em strict   
TG: also i see you've been catching up on your sbhj   
EB: yea, i mean they're funny i guess?   
TG: comedic gold   
EB: i guess...   
TG: that's cold dude   
TG: i'm over here shivering   
EB: bluh! whatever.   
EB: so am i allowed to come see the coolkid mixing in his natural habitat?   
TG: are you kidding   
TG: if i don't see your choice ass in my cheering section   
TG: i'm gonna be seriously offended   
EB: i'll be able to show you my dance moves!   
TG: is it too late to rescind the offer    
EB: yes, and i have to go anyway.   
EB: i was supposed to be back from lunch 15 minutes ago.   
TG: time flies   
EB: sure, i'll talk to you later!

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 13:17 –

\---------------------------------------------------

You have four days to engineer a set that will make the skinny bitches in dayglo high heels drop it like it's hot, and there is absolutely no time to lose. Luckily, time is the one thing you do have plenty of.

In Houston, you always had to drag your equipment to gigs. You've got two standard turntables (gifts from Bro), a mixer and a sequencer (a year of working at a local hardware store), and some beat up speakers (cringe-worthy sexual favor), which is more than you could say for most starting DJs. However for the first time in your professional career, you don't have to bring any of that shit.

Club Suit calls you shortly after you hang up with the critic to ask what kind of set-up you'll need. You try to keep your inherent cool, but you're sure you hear the manager's eyes rolling when you tell him you have personal gear.

His accent is heavy Brooklyn, and you can imagine his tone cutting through a layer of smoke from a cheap cigar. “We've got everything you'll need here buddy. What's your set-up?”

You give him the run-down, sneering as he mutters, “Low tech guy, ok.”

“You don't want any CDJs?”

“Nah, I'm a strictly vinyl and digital guy.”

“Suit yourself kid.” In the background you hear him mutter again: “Damn hipsters.”

You pretend like you don't hear and thank the man, then hang up the phone. Some greasy douchebag isn't gonna fluster you. Not yet anyway.

You set to work trying to find the right mix of modern digital to organic vinyl. Its a hard choice, but you settle for something morphing from hip-hop to trip-hop to some electronic chillwave, keeping in mind that you need lots of bass. You even throw in some samples from modern pop to keep the clubbers happy, but you distort them and string them out in the most ironic ways possible. You finish your arrangements by Thursday, and then spend all day Friday practicing the cuts and getting the beat timing just right.

At 11:42 am on Saturday, you wake up to begin gathering the records and sparse equipment you need to take. You grab your own headphones, cause sharing that shit is nasty, and your computer, as well as a few backup cables in case the club's connectors are shitty.

John volunteered to take you. You weren't going to ask, but frankly the idea of getting on the subway with all your gear was not something you were looking forward to. Your set starts at 10:00pm, and is only an hour long. Its the first of the night, so your crowd won't be the largest, or the most phased. This could either work for or against you, depending on how receptive they are to your mix.

You keep reminding yourself that you don't really know the scene here. Sure, you did some scoping out when you arrived, going to the most popular clubs and asking around when you though it was appropriate. But it still seems strange to you, so much more structured than in Houston, and the DJs each seem to have their own 'brand.' The thought churns around like a shady taco stand dinner in your gut.

John arrives at 7:37pm, after you've been waiting on the sidewalk for twelve minutes, nodding at the passersby who bother to look in your direction. You wanted to arrive at the club at 8:00, which might be overkill since you don't have to set up, but you think it might show professionalism. Or inexperience. Or something.

The edge comes off your anxiety slightly when you slide into the passenger's seat of John's car and notice his 'clubwear.' He's got on a pair of jeans tighter than you would have expected him to own, which is a pleasant surprise. Above that though he looks like he's going to church, with a baby blue shirt, a white tie, and a dark navy jacket. His hair looks absolutely terrible because you're sure he tried to style it. He notices you staring,

“What? What's the matter?”

You quickly look up to meet his gaze. “Nothing dude, just checking out your fashion is all.”

“I thought it looked nice.”

“It looks fine man, don't sweat it. Look what I'm wearing.” You don't really believe in superstition, but you've got on the shirt you wore to your first ever gig. Its a raglan tee with red sleeves and a broken record screen print. You've got on your red converse too, and tight black jeans.

“You're the DJ, doesn't that mean you can dress as dumb as you want and still get away with it?”

“What are you trying to say Egbert?”

“Nothing! I think you look great.” He laughs, then cocks his head at you. “Have you always had ear piercings? Guess I just never noticed.”

“I don't wear them all the time, but yea. Also, this.” You open your mouth and let your tongue loll out, revealing the silver barbell you put in this morning.

John visibly shudders. “Definitely haven't seen that one.”

You pull your tongue back inside your mouth and let a bit of a smile slip past. “I had a clear one in earlier.”

“Any other piercings I should know about?”

You don't say anything, but instead quirk an eyebrow over your shades. John gets the hint quickly enough and begins to blush. You'll just let him wonder.  
Without another word he turns to the front and pulls out onto the street.

\---------------------------------------------------

Due to traffic and John's GPS leading you in the wrong fucking direction for fifteen minutes, you don't arrive until about 8:30. As a timely individual, this doesn't really fly with you, but you try to be confident walking in nonetheless. Turns out, the manager thought you were too early anyway. He is just as greasy as you imagined, but he does allow you free run of the bar before your set, so you can't hate the guy too much.

Club Suit isn't one of those super mod icy spaces or anything, but its not old and dank either. Its got a bit of a retro feel, with red velveteen booths lining the walls and a dark-wood bar top. The dance floor is modern, with tiles made to look like marble, and flecked with little bits of light-catching glitter. The DJ booth is elevated slightly and situated on the far side of the dance floor opposite the bar. You think its a nice placement, not at the center of attention but still highly visible.

You check out your equipment first thing, with John following close behind you. Everything is nicer than your own hackneyed set, though unfamiliar. You get to work plugging in your computer and organizing your music, snapping at John to fetch you certain albums and cords. He seems dazed by all the equipment, and you can't help but play it up a bit, adjusting different wires and doing sound checks.

When you have everything situated finally, its 9:08, and you aren't about to let free alcohol just go untaken. You head over to the bar and sit on a stool. John follows.

The bartender is an older guy, good looking in the rugged salt and pepper kind of way. He strikes up a conversation with you, asking who you are and where you're from, then hands you and John both the drink special for the night.

“What is it?” John is obviously wary of alcohol at this point. You think with a bit of a cringe that he's probably still embarrassed about his behavior a few weeks ago.

“Tequila Sunset.” The bartender smiles and you can see that he has a single missing tooth. “Like a sunrise except with some some blackberry brandy for smokiness.”

John sips it tentatively, and his eyes widen when he finds that it is indeed delicious. “This is really good.”

“I know.” The bartender winks at John, who rumples a bit and turns to you.

“So, are you sure its a good idea to be drinking when you've got to perform?”

You roll your eyes under your shades, though he can't see that obviously. “Liquor is like lube for the turntables, gotta loosen her up before she'll sing.”

John giggles at your image, which leaves you wondering how long its been since this guy's gotten laid. You decide not to pursue that route of thinking at this current moment.

He stops laughing and straightens his face sheepishly “I mean I know rock stars get all wasted before shows and stuff, but you've got a lot more complicated set-up to deal with, right?”

“Drinking isn't the same as drunk Egbert. You definitely learned how to booze in university.”

“Guilty as charged,” he mutters into his cup, taking a fairly large gulp. You're about to tell him to slow it down, but his phone starts ringing before you can open your mouth.

He pulls it from his pocket and answers: “Hey Jade! Yea, we're at the bar, come in and meet Dave. Uh huh. Ok, see you in a second.”

“She's on her way in.”

You make an ironic scene of adjusting your clothes and your shades. “How do I look? Does my hair look nice? Is my makeup on straight?”

He grins, and you swallow a lump in your throat as you see him look slowly up and down your body. “Looking good to me. Well how do I look?” He puts a hand on his cheek and turns his head to the side.

“Perfect except for one thing.” You reach out and rumple his hair, letting parts of it loose from whatever styling product he tried to tame it with. It feels course, and you're sure he doesn't use conditioner, which probably contributes to its unruliness. When you pull your hand away, his locks are messy, but you think pretty damn hot. All he does in response to your kindness is glare.

“I spent at least 15 minutes on that.”

“Well it looks better now.”

“Whatever.”

Luckily, you hear a female voice call “John!” from across the dance floor, and you both turn to look. Jade is slightly taller than you, though not as tall as John, with a seasonally appropriate tan and long dark hair. She is wearing huge-framed fashion eyeglasses that seem to dwarf her petite face, and she is sporting the same overbite as John. You think the two look vaguely related, although her fashion sense seems much more advanced than John's. Her mind-length sequined green dress sparkles underneath a professional blazer. 

John hugs her, and you drain your drink, then stand up. 

“Dave, this is Jade Harley. Jade, Dave Strider.” You extend your hand and she clasps it firmly, giving you a winning smile.

“Its great to meet you! John talks about you a ton, and I was really hoping I would get to see the coolkid in action.” She giggles, and you see that even though she looks put together, she's just as much of a dork as John is. That's probably why they get along so well.

“Well I'll be hoping not to disappoint you ma'am.” You throw on a bit of the southern charm, sans accent, and watch as her grin widens.

“What have you got on the set-list, if you're willing to give me a preview?” She pulls an iPad from her purse and begins tapping on the screen. You give her the run-down, and are mildly surprised when she goes from giggling to animatedly discussing the underground breakbeat scene. You knew she was a critic, but damn. You pull out you phone and make note of some of the artists she tells you to check out.

John stands on the side, obviously trying to pay attention, but not really getting it. When a lull occurs in the conversation (entirely your fault), Jade turns to him.

“So, do you know who came in our office yesterday?”

John looks at her quizzically. “No, it wasn't anyone important right?”

Jade laughs more acidly than before. “Nope not at all. Vantas stopped by to chew out my boss about something.”

John's expression sours. “How did that go?”

“Well, I couldn't hear the conversation all that well, only weird shouting and the way his voice gets all high when he's angry.”

John snorts, obviously amused. “That sounds like Karkat to me.”

“I seriously don't know how you deal with that fuckass, I wouldv'e knocked him out by now!”

John shrugs, “Its just easier to ignore him. He gets the hint most days.”

Jade just shakes her head and nudges John in the side. The conversation sort of screeches to a halt after that, and Jade finally excuses herself to talk to the manager and get her notes set up.

“Its been great to meet you Dave!” She wraps you in an unexpected hug, and all you can think to do is pat her on the back. She releases you with a giggle, then exits the room.

“That's quite a gal, Egbert.”

John laughs. “Jade is . . . spirited. And intelligent, and a really good friend.” 

Your heart drops a bit, but you force your face into a smirk. “How good of a friend are we talking here?”

He catches your hint and shakes his head wildly. “No no no no, not like that. She's just generally a really good friend.

“Ah.” The bile retreats back into your stomach. 

“We're too similar I think.”

“To be perfectly honest, I feel like she's got you beat in a few areas.”

He punches your arm. You pretend to wince.

By now its 9:42, and you feel like you ought to go man your station. John says he wants to scope out the entrance line for the club, and also go find Jade, so you bid him an overly-dramatic farewell before slouching off to the DJ booth.

The club lights dim, and you check out the glowing monitors, trying to double familiarize yourself with the controls. You load up your opening tracks and start reviewing the order in your head. John had been a great distraction. Now you feel as though something sharp is trying to claw its way out of your chest. You haven't been this nervous since your very first gig, and you stupidly entertain the notion that its the psycho-influence of your t-shirt. Rose would say something like that. Probably. 

At five-til, someone signals you to get going, so you flip on an auto-playlist, which is a collection of tracks that are easy to crossfade out of and into your designed set. You take a few deep breaths and try to sink into the simple beats now swirling through the club. 

The doors open and a wave of people come swarming in, in varying degrees of dress and douchebaggery. Most hit the bar immediately, and you wait for enough people to step onto the dance floor before you cue your set.

This is it.

You slip on your headphones and press play, fading out the auto-playlist. The familiar static hum of your intro builds over the speakers, distorting and glitching itself into a strange semblance of beat. The static cuts into silence after 25 seconds, during which time your recorded voice deadpans “Strider,” before proceeding to drop that shit.

You don't look at the crowd for a few minutes because you are focusing solely on making the correct cuts and timing the transitions. After the first two songs, you relax into the music, finding that your muscle memory is carrying you though with ease. When you do look up, you can see people responding well to your jam, which in this case means they are basically fucking each other on the dance floor. Good.

You scan the crowd for John and Jade, finding them on the edge of the floor. They aren't grinding like most everyone else is, which you expected. Jade manages to pull off swaying her hips while typing furiously on her iPad. John is dancing next to her, and he clearly has no idea what to do with his hands. His hips are another matter entirely though. Hot damn.

Your heart skips and beat and so do your hands, mussing the transition. You look down quickly and scratch a little, hopefully hiding your mistake. No one seems to notice. You look up at John only sparingly from then on.

Solid bass thumps are played up during the hip-hop section, and you can see Jade's white grin glittering in the club lighting. You cool it for the trip-hop and chillwave, letting expanses of low frequency build and fall off as the clubbers chill into a steady grind. 

You get lost in it, cuing audio into your headphones and cutting on instinct. This always happens. Your set never goes strictly as planned, and after a while you seem to lose track of where your hands are, what your body is doing. Everything except for the constant flow of beats and the way jagged pieces of music seamlessly layer and overflow onto the dance floor. 

Your closing few numbers wash over the club with building intensity, and end with a raw blast of cut and paste, followed by the slow rhythmic descent into static. You suddenly become aware of your hands again, and deliberately fade out the music into the auto playlist. 

The next DJ is waiting along the side of the booth, and he gives you a serious handshake when he steps up and begins preparing up his own set. You hadn't even noticed he was there. The crowd is cheering drunkenly, and you're not sure whether its for you or the new DJ, but damned if you care. You gather your records and computer, then head out of the booth. You headphones are still around your neck, and you're beginning to realize how absolutely sweaty you are. John and Jade are waiting for you.

John has to yell over the noise in the club. “DAVE! THAT WAS FUCKING AMAZING DUDE!”

“Thanks.” You doubt he hears you. He's sweating some, and his jacket is off and draped over one shoulder. You can't stop thinking about the way his hips were moving.

Jade perks up. “SERIOUSLY, THAT SET WAS SO GOOD! I WAS ESPECIALLY IMPRESSED BY -” her words are drowned out by the next DJ's intro, and you nod at the back exit of the club.

The three of you make you way out into the cool night air, and Jade talks your ear off about your mix, asking about different cuts and stylistic choices. You answer her to the best of your ability, still feeling kind of dazed and exhilarated. She finally has to excuse herself to go listen to the next DJ, and you are left alone with John.

A breeze whips around the corner and tugs through your damp hair. John pokes your chest.

“Did you fall in?”

You look down and see that the white areas of your t-shirt are see-through from your neck down to your stomach. “Satiating the turntables is sweaty work Egbert.”

“Right, and your dance moves had nothing to do with it.”

You hadn't been aware that you were dancing. John seems to think about it and becomes slightly flustered. At least that's what you hope anyway. 

“Don't even start talking about my dancing John, I don't know what sort of aimless hot fuck you were doing with your hands.” You pull out a pack of cigarettes and grab one with your lips, shielding the tip as you light it. You take a long drag and watch the smoke slither then disperse into the air. John refuses the pack when you offer him one.

“Yea well, you didn't even look at the turntables half the time. You just sorta moved . . . around . . .”

You smirk at the slip in eloquence. “So Jade liked it then?”

“Oh yea, she was really excited! Said you did some revolutionary stuff and really brought some fresh ideas into the scene.”

“Good.” The nicotine is keeping you more mellow than you would probably be otherwise, so you inhale from your cig deeply. The smoke tangles in John's hair before escaping into the breeze.

“She said you were cute too.” He chuckles slightly. “But don't worry, I told her you were gay.”

You turn sharply to look at him. He's just grinning like a dumbass.

“Why the hell did you say that?”

His smile slips down into a look of confusion. “Because? You, uh, are? Right? I mean I just figured since -”

You cut him off. “Egbert, my last relationship was with a woman. Furthermore, I'd appreciate it if you didn't stuff me into your predetermined sexual expectations.”

“So you're bisexual then?” He's going pale at this point.

“Honestly I could fucking care less.” You finish half your cigarette with one drag, and crush the butt under the toe of your sneaker. “Does it really fucking matter? Why can't we just get with whoever we wanna get with? I don't understand all the categorical bullshit.”

John looks for a moment like you slapped him. You almost wished you had. The way he thinks is so damn frustrating sometimes, always having to sort everything into labeled file folders with color coded data entries.

He hasn't taken those shockingly blue eyes off you yet, and you're about to tell him to shove off, when he clears his throat.

“I'm sorry. I guess I just never really . . .” He falters again, and looks at the ground. You feel a small twinge of guilt for snapping at him. 

“Its fine Egbert, no need to put your tail between your legs or anything. I know this might be a strange concept for some people to swallow -”

You stop because he steps closer to you. You've never been so acutely aware of the height difference before, but he has a solid 4 inches on you. His brows knit together, and you give him your best deadpan. He looks at you, obviously trying to read something but getting no signal from your facade. His face is so expressive, and you can see the conflict running through his features. You feel like your breathing is deafeningly loud in the silence, waiting for him to move, waiting for him to do something.

In shitty movies, all the best moments happen in slow motion. In real life, you find that mostly they happen so fast you can barely remember.

Which is why you're not exactly sure how John's mouth found yours, or how long it took before your breathing was ragged, how your fingers got tangled in his hair, how his hand wrapped around the back of your neck, leaving you moaning quietly and sucking on his slightly chapped bottom lip, how his tongue moves against yours hesitantly and then not hesitantly at all, deliberately caressing the smooth metal of your tongue barbell, how there is suddenly so much heat between the two of you, how you press as much of your body against him as you can manage, how he suddenly breaks the kiss and backs away, glasses askew, panting in the false light of streetlamps and skyscrapers.

Your back is firmly braced against the wall, and you're glad for it because your legs have completely liquefied. You feel suddenly at a precipice. Instead of experiencing the elation of getting what you desire, your guts twist in the fear that it will all suddenly be wrenched away, leaving you more alone than when you first started. 

You can't take this anymore. You try to sink into a sitting position as suavely as you can, which turns out to be not suavely at all. You basically fall down, probably bruising your rear on whatever dirty gravel and rusty nails happen to be laying in the back parking lot of a nightclub. John snaps out of his bewilderment and rushes forward.

Seeing his concern just seems so funny at this point after the crisis you just experienced. You can't help it. For the first time since you moved to this goddamn city, you actually laugh. Not a condescending chuckle, or an amused half-wheeze, but an honest to god, ab-workout belly laugh.

John's eyes widen, obviously thinking that you have finally fucking snapped, but then he must catch it too because suddenly his smile is so bright it could probably power this whole damn city, and he's giggling and snorting into the night air and sitting next to you amongst the cigarette butts and everything is ok.

You're not ready to do anything stupid like try to hold his hand or put your head on his shoulder, but that's fine, because when you offer him another cigarette, he licks his lips and says “Menthol.”

Smoke rippling into the breeze seems to make the world stop, if only for a moment that'll you'll barely remember.


	6. baby on board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> posh stuff happenin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY OK 
> 
> finals + working christmas overtime + christmas in general = me not having time to write / me not having ideas or direction for this
> 
> if i tarry this long for the next one feel free to send me a sternly worded letter
> 
> <3
> 
> *i will prolly double check typos tomorrow i just want to get it up right now*

The good news:

The morning that Jade’s review went to print, your cell phone started going off like one of those coaster buzzers in the waiting line at the Olive Garden alerting you to the fact that its motherfucking pasta time.

You receive no less than ten offers for DJ gigs at various clubs, from ritzy upper-east type establishments to strictly hip-hop joints. Even one Euro-trash club gives you a call, but you politely decline after the guy’s innuendo is worse than yours.

In the end, you decide to stick with Suit. The manager offers you the most hours and complete freedom in your set designs, where most other places insist that you cater to their clientèle. 

You are scheduled to perform at Club Suit all night on Fridays. The manager says that he’s going to bill you as a ‘feature’ DJ. You glean that he just wants you to be eclectic and have a dynamic set every week, which you can more than oblige. 

Its nice to have options. Its even nicer to have a steady job.

The bad news:

After your little parking-lot tongue tango (completely Egbert’s instigation), nothing actually happened.

He just sat there chatting with you like nothing interesting and/or relationship changing might have just occurred. You wanted to press the issue (and press against John) further, but you chickened the fuck out and just ended up chain smoking until you about hacked up a lung. 

He drove you home and dropped you off with nothing except a glance that lingered longer than it would have normally, and possibly the lightest of flushes, and maybe he did bite his lower lip after he waved and told you goodnight.

He pestered you the next day though, and it was the same enthusiastic John, yammering on about the dorkiest shit like he didn’t know what the inside of your mouth tasted like.

You are annoyed with him and frustrated with yourself.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:22 --

TT: I heard that your gig was a success.    
TT: Sources say that you left your audience positively quivering with delight.   
TG: yep it was a damn near religious experience for everyone involved   
TT: Religious? Perhaps some even began to speak in tongues.   
TG: . . .   
TG: how do you know   
TG: how do you always fucking know   
TT: Know what? I am merely congratulating you on the success of your performance, and also commenting on any adulation that may have been expressed in a manner involving the lips but not the vocal cords.   
TG: fuck you   
TG: besides the vocal chords were involved   
TG: just not forming coherent statements is all   
TT: Does that admission of a tantalizing detail mean that you actually want to talk about it?   
TG: no   
TT: Figures. John said the same thing.   
TG: what is it with you   
TG: fussy meddlebritches   
TG: its like you’re some fancy english benefactor   
TG: doling out money to young boys in your reverse harem   
TG: trying to get them to make out with each other so you can finally get your old bones off   
TT: Go on.   
TG: you are not saving this and putting it in a script or something   
TG: that is a not a thing that you are doing   
TT: Then you should probably stop talking.   
TG: curses you found my one weakness   
TG: threw the proverbial water bucket at me   
TG: i’m melting rose   
TT: You seem cheerful today. Anything else happen?   
TG: scored a steady gig   
TG: making cash enough that i can buy the ramen multi pack   
TG: maybe i’ll even start cooking it on the stove idk   
TT: Don’t get too wild.   
TG: no promises   
TT: Well, either way, we should celebrate!   
TT: I’ve been wanting you to come to the weekend place for a while now.   
TG: ahahahahah   
TG: me in the hamptons i can see it now   
TG: someone’s going to ask me to clean their pool or muck out their stables   
TT: I’m not asking you to move there.   
TT: Stay for the weekend. I promise its a lovely spot for relaxation.   
TG: yea ok   
TG: my apartment has no ac so pretty much anywhere i could go is better than here   
TG: i work on friday night   
TG: so i guess i can show up sometime saturday morning/afternoon/whenever the fuck i wake up   
TT: Do you want me to drive you out there?   
TG: nope got it covered   
TT: Oh, alright. I guess I’ll see you then.   
TG: got it   
TG: but anyway i’ve got a set to manufacture   
TG: tables aren’t going to spin themselves   
TG: ttyl   
TT: Farewell!

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 19:57 -- 

\-----------------------------

Your drive out to Rose’s place is pretty uneventful.

That’s right. Your drive. In your new car. Fuck yea.

Well, new is sort of a relative term. Car might be a relative term too.

You had wanted a small truck because they’re functional as hell, but then you found out that there aren’t really many of those in the city. Especially not in your price range. But then none of that mattered because it was love at first sight between you and the cherry red metal deathtrap you’ve decided to call Cal. For nostalgia's sake. And because it might actually kill you someday. 

The used car dealership had to send out three different salesmen to haggle with you, because when a Strider finds something he desires, he doesn’t back down. Well unless that something is a relationship, then there’s a rather flagrant history of tucking the tail between the legs and running in the opposite direction.  
In the end, you got the car for $1,262.37, and damned if you didn’t haggle it down to the $0.37. It was probably still too much, but you have some fairly solid knowledge about home auto repair and troubleshooting. Also it came with a ‘Baby on Board’ sign permanently affixed to the back window. You don’t even try to take it off because why the fuck would you spoil something as perfect as that.

So you and Cal putter through the Hamptons, past BMWs, Ferraris, and whoa shit is that an Aston Martin, probably polluting the elitist air with your old car smell. Rose was right, it feels nice to get away already.

You call her when you turn onto her street and confirm her house number. She’s waiting out on the front lawn with Kanaya when you pull into her driveway. 

Rose’s look of horror is absolutely priceless.

You smirk and park the car. Your only concern is that there seems to be a little smoke leaking from under the hood. Also the engine sputters when you turn off the ignition. You can have a look later.

"What the hell is that." Rose’s voice is flat and you fight the urge to straight up laugh at her.

"1979 Ford Pinto Coupe, 2.6L V6. The name’s Cal and he has air conditioning."

"Oh my God."

"No heat though. But that shouldn’t be an issue, I’m like a goddamn furnace. Also this." You show her your back window and she just shakes her head.

"I can buy you a new car Dave. Something reliable. You should have just asked."

You cross your arms and glare at her behind your shades. "Nope this is MY car. Mine. 100% car-o del Strider and that’s where I’d like to keep it thanks."

You almost forget about Kanaya until she starts laughing. The two of you turn to look at her a bit sheepishly. 

"Sibling love, I can tell that this is going to be an interesting weekend already."

Rose walks over and puts an arm around her waist. Kanaya kisses her cheek.

"Lets go inside, shall we?" Kanaya points to your car. "That looks like it needs to cool off anyway."

You nod, letting a small grin tug at the corner of your mouth. You walk past the pair, headed in the direction of the front door. As you pass by, you put out a fist for Kanaya to bump. She cooly obliges.

You can hear Rose rolling her eyes.

\----------------------------------

"So what is there to do in the land of the uber-rich?"

You are seated at the table in the main kitchen of Rose’s 4,000 square foot little weekend home. She sets a cup of coffee in front of you, then slides into a seat across the table.

"Plenty of things that I know would push the boundaries of ironic into embarrassing."

"Incredible. What?"

She thinks for a moment. "Well, the gentleman next door has his own stable, and he rents out horses to polo players"

You cringe and shake your head slowly. "Afraid that I didn’t quite bring the wardrobe for polo." You gesture to your ripped up jeans.

"I didn’t think so. The people on the other side of us have beach access."

"Huh. I guess I’d be up for that. Didn’t bring any swim trunks either though."

She sips her mug of herbal tea. "That’s fine, I have a pair for you."

"Why do you own male swimwear?"

Kanaya pipes up. "Rose is always prepared." She winks and you don’t even want to know. Or think about the fact that you’re probably gonna put your junk in them, wherever they’ve been.

"Honestly, most of the entertainment here involves socializing, which is probably out of the question."

"You know me so well sis."

"Of course I do." Rose sighs heavily. "But there’s also plenty to do around the house. I have a large projector set up, so we could just do a movie night."

You snicker. "Good thing Egbert’s not here to pick the films."

The doorbell chimes and Kanaya laughs "Perfect timing!"

Rose practically springs up from her chair and floats to the door. You hear the latch click and a singsong voice.

"Lovely to see you again John."

Mother.

Fucker.

You unconsciously run your fingers through your hair, and push your shades up the bridge of your nose. Kanaya starts this tinkling little laugh.

"What exactly are you laughing about Yaya."

"Your fruitless attempts to appear more presentable due to the addition of our guest."

"Shut up."

You haven’t seen John since he dropped you off that night and fuck Rose didn’t give you any time to prepare. Calm down Strider. Poker face, poker face, Lady Gaga’s bedazzled nipples or something.

Wait. Never mind.

John walks into the kitchen and his face breaks into an enormous grin and your attempt at cool just melts.

"Dave! I didn’t know you were going to be here. Rose just asked me to come out for the weekend." He turns to Kanaya. "Hello Miss Maryam. Wow this is gonna be great!"

He plops down next to you, and you notice that he smells like toothpaste and laundry detergent. He’s also dressed more casually than you’ve ever seen him, in a plain blue t-shirt and jeans with a small hole in one knee. Without a suit jacket and a ton of extra bunched fabric, you can see that he has a bit of a belly.

God if you don’t stop this you are gonna strangle everyone with the awkward sexual tension of it all.

Thankfully, Rose places a brunch tray on the table with bagels and scones, and you stuff your mouth to keep it from saying something stupid.

John spreads cream cheese on a blueberry bagel, then turns to you. "Have you ever been here before? To Rose’s weekend house?"

"Nope, I’m popping my Hamptons cherry as we speak."

He giggles and the corner of your mouth quirks up. "Why, have you?"

"Oh yea, Rose had this party here a few months ago." He smiles at Rose. "Remember?"

"Not really no. Its awfully hazy after the first bottle of wine."

Kanaya pokes Rose in the ribs. "You don’t remember anything hmm?"

"Well, some parts are clearer than others." The pair share a knowing smile and you make a retching noise.

John’s eyes widen and he starts to blush. Damn what a cutie. "Well I had a good time."

"Thank you for saying so John. No, my dear brother was still grunting around an apartment in Texas at that time." She smirks at you. "Besides, I wouldn’t have thrown him to those particular wolves."

"Your generosity is unmatched sis."

The four of you finish up your respective breakfast pastries then decide to try the beach. Its only 1:03, so the rest of the day is open for whatever. You and John walk outside to get bags from your cars.

"I was wondering who the hell that could be!" John points at Cal.

"Spoiler alert: its me. I bought a car."

"Hope you didn’t pay too much." John wrinkles his nose good-naturedly and you kick a stray rock at him.

"Don’t be dissing Cal. Cal is the shit."

"That’s fine, you are entitled to your opinion. I am just saying that being a twenty-five year old guy driving a broken down old heap of metal through the Hamptons is not cool by any stretch of the imagination or definition of the word cool, ironic or otherwise. That’s all I’m saying."

"Yeah bullshit. Cal is dope, Pintos are awesome, John Egbert blows, the end."

"Yeah, more like the opposite of all those things is the thing that is true!" He stammers slightly and you chuckle at him.

"Sick burn dude, I’m gonna need ice for that one."

He slams his car door and trudges back into the house with a duffel bag.

When you get back inside, John heads to the restroom to change. There is a folded pair of pink swim trunks on the kitchen table. Welp, figures.

You pull out a ratty old t-shirt that you were planning on sleeping in, and go to a different bathroom to put it all on. The lighting above the mirror is good, but damn, you’re looking even more pasty than usual.

When you shuffle out to the main living area, the girls are waiting with an umbrella and a huge bag full of what you assume are towels and sunscreen and hefty paperbacks.

When John comes out, you notice his swim trunks first. Not that you are looking on purpose, but they are fucking ridiculous and you can’t help it.

"Ghostbusters. Your shorts are Ghostbusters."

"My shorts are awesome. End of story." He looks down at yours and you think you detect a hint of a blush. "Anyway, yours are pink!"

"Mine are awesome." You reach down to grab the beach bag.

Rose hoists the umbrella over one shoulder. "Shall we?"

The four of your walk out into Rose’s back garden, which is festooned with all manner of shrubbery and ferns and ivy. No flowers though, she never liked them much. You usually get her a huge bouquet of pink roses on her birthday,

Her back gate connects to the yard of the property bordering the beach. As you walk through this lawn, you see that its nautically themed, with shaped bushes and fountains. A man is laying in a lawn chair on the patio wearing only a speedo. He has on those douchey wayfarer sunglasses.

Rose yells out at him as you pass by. "Hello Eridan! How are you?"

The man sits up and pushes his shades down the bridge of his nose slightly. "Oh hey Rose, you goin’ to the beach? I’m doin very well today, gettin’ some sun." His accent is strange and wavering. Danish maybe? Slovak? Whatever. "Who have you got here with you?"

"Well, you know Kanaya. This is my brother, Dave." You nod. "And my good friend John." He waves animatedly.

"I didn’t know you had a brother." His eyes linger on you for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"How’s Feferi?" You’ll have to thank Rose for that later.

"Oh Fef is great, she’s out shoppin’ today." His voice hums happily at that statement.

"Lovely to hear. Anyway, we’re going to head out to the beach. Thanks for letting us pass through!"

"Any time. Don’t be strangers. It can get awful lonely without anybody here." He stares at you again, and you almost run into the back of Kanaya as you stride towards the beach.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, you question Rose.

"That douche just fucked me with his eyeballs, whats up with him"

"He’s been married to Feferi and living there ever since I’ve known him. She’s absolutely lovely. Although - " Rose looks over her shoulder. " - I did hear that he had a fling with his housekeeper for a while. His male housekeeper."

"Figures," you mumble.

The sand is warm, but not too hot as your toes sink into it. Plus, its fairly white, and the ocean is actually a shade of blue. Its a huge departure from the brown sand and brownish-green Gulf that is the shore in Galveston.

Rose sets up the umbrella and a huge beach blanket. You and Kanaya dive under the shade immediately. You don’t wanna get pan-fried if you can help it. Yaya is also naturally pale, and Rose says she’s pretty vain about it.

The sad thing is that John, the guy from Washington state, is the most tan out of the group. He’s got a warm olive complexion that looks like it tans nicely. Rose obviously tans on a regular basis, although she would never admit it. You are from the same gene pool after all. She didn’t get stuck with any of your’s or Bro’s genetic malfunction though, that bitch.

You whip off your shirt and slather enough sunscreen over your torso to drown a horse. John is standing off to the side in the sun, and you hold the sunscreen bottle out to him.

"Want me to get your back for you babe?"

He startles and looks at you, eyes tracing down to your stomach and the lean muscle there. He quickly looks away.

"No thanks, I’m going to leave my shirt on." He sighs and then smirks at you. "Honestly Dave, you should too, you’re going to blind everyone."

"That’s just an urban legend, you can’t go blind from jacking off too much."

Rose snatches the sunscreen from your outstretched hand. "Dave knows, he’s personally tested the theory." She daintily applies the lotion to the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.

"Coming from a chick whose mother got her a vibrator for Christmas."

Kanaya snorts on the blanket next to you. "Its one of the more useful gifts she has been given."

John fidgets in the sand. "Oookay, who wants to go in the water?"

You stand up and duck out from under the umbrella, feeling the sun hit your skin. The rays aren’t as strong here as they are down south. It almost feels nice, as opposed to excruciating.

"C’mon Egbert, lets go splash in the tub."

The two of you dip in the surf, and its honestly more awkward than you remember. You haven’t been to the beach in years, and the last time Bro took you, it turned into a massive water fight. But you think if you tried to jump on John’s back and dunk him, he would probably be uncomfortable.

Which is why you almost choke when John jumps on your back and dunks you.

You go under and swallow a mouthful of seawater, clutching at your shades before the are washed from your face. 

You resurface with a sputter to a cackling John. 

"What the fuck Egbert, not cool."

"No, that was hilarious. I got you so good!" 

You reach under your shades to rub the water out of your eyes. John snatches them off your nose before you can catch him, and you mistakenly crack your lids. The glare of the sun off the sand and the water sears your retinas, and you hiss in pain. You clamp your palms over your eyes.

"It was pretty dumb of you to wear sunglasses in the ocean. I mean I know you wear them everywhere but still."

"Give them back Egbert. Now." He somehow seems oblivious to your pain, and he obviously didn’t see your freaky eye color in the split second you had them open.

"Whoa man, are you ok?" You feel a narrow object jabbing at your temple, and you realize that John is trying to put your shades back on. You grab them from his hand quickly and slide them on.

You eyes are watering fiercely. "Yea, all good."

"What happened? Are you deformed under there or something? Cause I won’t care, I promise."

You can’t help but grin at the irony of his statement. "Yep I am. Horribly disfigured."

He flicks water at you. "But really, why?"

"My eyes are over-sensitive to light. As in, anything too bright feels like someone shoved hot coals under my eyelids."

"Oh." John looks puzzled. "Why was that such a big secret? I mean its not a big deal."

Oh, the half-truth. "Its not, you just never asked."

"Well you didn’t volunteer!"

"I’m sure there are a few tasty Egbertian nuggets that you haven’t volunteered."

"I am very allergic to peanuts."

"Dork." You dunk him.

The sun, the surf, and watching Rose and Kanaya cuddle on a beach blanket get old after a few hours, so the four of your head back to the house to shower. You sustained only a faint roasting, mainly on your nose, while sunscreenless John just seemed to caramelize slightly. 

\------------------------

Turns out that Rose lets the film critic pick the movies for the evening. Go figure.

John selects Deep Impact, The Neverending Story, and The Strangers, which he hasn’t seen. He’s excited because it has Liv Tyler in it. You don’t think he knows its a slasher film. 

Rose and Kanaya last though Deep Impact and about half of Neverending Story. You have a running line of commentary about Falkor the Luck Dragon, and after a certain point the couple seems to hit their bullshit limit for the evening. They abscond to Rose’s room quietly.

You don’t think John even notices because he’s too transfixed on the big screen. You take the opportunity to stare at him a little. His face is so expressive, and you get drawn into the way his mouth twitches at jokes, the way his eyes widen during action sequences, when he cocks his head during heartfelt moments. They way he’s involved in this terrible excuse for a family film is just about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. 

When the movie ends you try to initiate a slow clap, which John doesn’t join you in. He finally realizes that most of the estrogen has left the room. Rose has a couch and a love seat in her den, and of course the sappy couple took the love seat. You and John are sharing the couch, with one cushion between the two of you. You hope he doesn’t move.

He twists around to look at you, grinning widely. "You up for round three? This one has Liv Tyler in it."

"Yes and yea you told us all about four times. I understand how hot your boner rages for this dame."

John huffs and turns on the movie. He lets the previews run through because the trailers fascinate him. You drum your fingers on the cushion and wait for the film proper to begin.

About two minutes in, John has a revelation: "Wait. They have a yellow filter on the shots."

"Yea, I guess it looks yellow. What’s your point?"

"Well, this is by no means exclusive, but generally the films that use that are westerns and horrors."

"Does this look like a western to you Egbert?"

"No."

"Well, there’s your answer."

"Wait. What kind of horror film are we talking about? Because supernatural films usually have more of a blue tint and the yellow is reserved for -"

"Slasher." His eyes go wide at your response.

"I don’t. Uhm . . ."

You look sideways at him, noting the uncertainty in the way he chews on his bottom lip. "The film critic can’t handle a little gore?"

"Its not that!! I just . . . prefer something with less sadism."

"Noted."

"What?"

"Nothing." You smirk and shoosh John as he tries to question you further.

The movie progresses and you see John getting increasingly tense. Your hand has been on the middle cushion for a while now and during a jump-scene John flinches and his hand brushes yours. He’s still so involved in the film that he doesn’t seem to notice how his pinky is currently resting against your pinky. Maybe you are too aware. 

Its your turn to be tense, for an entirely different reason. I mean, the guy made out with you on the mouth, it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal that he’s accidentally touching your hand. Damnit.

Another jump, this time with surprise gore. John audibly yelps, and digs his fingernails into the back of your hand. You almost pull away because it surprises you and kind of hurts. 

This interrupts John’s stupor for a moment, and he looks over at you, then at the space between the two of you. You see his face flushing in the yellow tint of the film’s glow. He looks like he’s wondering whether to pull away or not.

Now or never Strider, don’t fuck this up.

You reach your thumb up to stroke his index finger. He inhales slightly, but doesn’t pull away. His focus returns to the screen, but he looks more distracted than before. 

Another well-timed scary moment occurs in the film, and John tenses up. Suddenly he reaches for your hand fully, grabbing your palm in his and intertwining your fingers.

Trying to monopolize on your momentum, you tug on his hand, signaling him to scoot closer to you. He moves to the middle cushion and leans his back against your chest. 

The shift forced him to release your hand, but he grabs it again as soon as he’s situated, and tugs it around his waist. He’s still taller than you, even leaning back, so you rest your chin on his shoulder.

He’s so warm, and he still smells like toothpaste. You nuzzle into his neck.

The climax of the film breaks, and John whispers a frantic "Liv, no." You could fucking care less about the movie right now because John is actually trembling. You wrap your other arm around him.

As the final shot of the film fades into the credits, John exhales deeply. He’s shaken, and you feel a bit guilty for pressuring him into watching something that terrifies him.

You don’t even realize that you’ve mumbled "sorry" until its past your lips. His shoulders drop back into your chest, and a shudder runs down his spine. Its such an intimate moment, and you can’t help yourself. You tilt your head and press a kiss to the hollow behind his jawbone.

Suddenly its all teeth and tongue, glasses clanking, and John’s weight rolling on top of your body. He kisses you desperately, wrapping his tongue around yours and sucking on your lips rhythmically. But then, just like before, he pulls back abruptly. You are panting already and you must look so needy.

He doesn’t pull away far. His eyes try to lock on yours, but he can’t find them in your shades.

"Is it dark enough in here?" His words come out as whispers, and you can feel his breath playing across your lips.

"Yea." You swallow heavily.

He slowly reaches up to grab your aviators. You close your eyes out of habit, until you feel the nose-piece slip from your face. You tentatively open your lids, and look straight up, unshielded into John’s eyes. They seem more blue than ever when they widen in shock.

"Red?"

"Yep."

"Contacts?"

"Nope."

"Wow." The word is more exhale than vocal cords. He leans down the few inches to your mouth and brushes your lips slightly with his own. "They’re pretty."

"Thanks babe." Your chest thumps so hard you think he can probably feel it. He lays light kisses on your mouth and they feel so chaste, intimate. That is until he bites your bottom lip hard.

You groan into his open mouth and he smothers the noise with his tongue. The weight of him, the heat of him, all of him get to you suddenly and you wrap your hands in his hair, tugging slightly at his roots. This earns you a breathy "fuck," and that’s all it takes for you to throw up your hips and grind into him.

You wonder if you’ve gone too far when he freezes. But then he returns the favor, harder. The pressure on your already semi-erect cock feels incredible. Maybe because you haven’t gotten laid in a while, maybe because its John. Ok definitely because its John. He lets out a little whine when you start to meet his thrusts.

Your rhythm increases and you get lost in the physical sensations radiating from your mouth and groin. You’ve completely dropped your facade. The noises coming from your would be embarrassing in any other situation except that you just don’t fucking care because holy shit John is so hot and really good at this and if he keeps this up you are definitely going to cream your sweatpants. 

Then: "AHHHHH GET THE FUCK AWAY."

You’re not sure what happens at first, but John leaps back against the far end of the couch, shielding his face with his hands and peeking through his fingers. He’s transfixed on something behind you. Slowly, you turn around with a sense of dread.

A feminine figure is standing in the doorway of the room, with the palest face you have ever seen, and dark lips. She almost looks like the masked figure from the mov – OH SHIT OH GOD OH GOD.

Kanaya’s voice breaches the silence groggily. "I’m just getting a drink of water, try not to shout. Carry on with whatever you were doing."

She moves past the door frame and you let out a shaky breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. John is flat-out trembling. Hoping that Yaya didn’t spoil whatever bubble of intimacy seemed to have formed, you wrap your arms around John’s neck and pull him towards you.

He relaxes into your touch, and buries his head into your collarbone. You move into a more horizontal position and begin to stroke his hair lightly.

"That was stupid." His breath tickles goosebumps across your skin.

"Yep." You kiss the top of his head, and he reaches up to slide his hand into yours.

"Do you want to talk about this?" His voice comes out shaky, and you just want to hold him as tight as you can. 

You murmur "tomorrow." 

Its not long before he is lightly snoring in to your chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't seen the the strangers look up the poster to see the masks they are pretty freaky


	7. lesbihonest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> relationship intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a little shorter and is also more exposition that needed to happen but hopefully you think its cute i think its cute

You need to take a piss.

Unfortunately there are 200+ lbs of Egbert sprawled across your chest. He's drooling near your right armpit, mouth wide open and jesus fuck does he always snore this loud, he is going to rupture your internal organs.

The pressure of his torso on your bladder is getting unbearable, especially since the two of you basically fell asleep mid-rut, minus the psycho knife murderer incident that you are gonna do your best to pretend never happened. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate John's body between them, making you one-hundred percent immobile.

If this keeps up, you hope he's into watersports.

Trying to forgo as much non-consensual urination as you can manage, you try to nudge him awake.

“John. Dude. Get up.”

Nothing. Not a fucking peep.

You reach up your free left hand and poke him in the forehead. “Eg. Bert. Wake. Up. I. Will. Pee. On. You.” You punctuate every syllable with a jab, and he grunts. Then he starts snoring louder than before.

Desperate times and measures and you are gonna have to pull out the big guns.

You lift your head as close to John's ear as you can, take a deep breath and whisper:

“Sarah Jessica Parker's nipples.” Then you smack him.

“What?” His response is part snore, part snort, and part repressed teenage eroticism. 

“Get off me I need to piss.” 

“Ugh.” 

He rolls over and gets between you and the back of the couch, basically shoving you off the cushions in the process. You don't care though because the cream-colored door to the bathroom looks like the motherfucking pearly gates and you grab your shades then make your way to the longest and most glorious piss of your entire life.

When you return he's taking up the entire couch, and you aren't about to try and win that battle. You instead sling your feet over the armrest of the loveseat and try to fall asleep again.

In a perfect world you would have been awoken by John lightly kissing your lips, and probably the smell of bacon.

You do smell bacon, which is the only thing that saves you from projectile vomiting when a droll voice nasally spews "Get up Dave. Everyone except you is at breakfast, and we would like to eat before the meal starts to qualify as lunch."

"W’times it?" You know the answer already though. 11:17. Rose exits the room without answering you.

You get up slowly, trying to straighten your rumpled clothes and press down a snuggle-induced cowlick.

Everyone is indeed at the table when you slouch in, and you collapse in a chair next to John. He’s been up for a while by the looks of the bright grin he’s got going on. Or maybe he’s just a morning person. Either way, he had the decency to shower and put on a fresh set of clothes. You regard his slightly damp hair with a smirk.

"Eat." Rose points at the breakfast spread and you shovel an indecent amount of eggs and biscuits and bacon on your plate. She even made grits. She hates grits.

"How is it?" Ok, something is definitely up with her. She and Kanaya aren’t saying anything, only eying you and John suspiciously while sharing knowing looks. Plus she asked your opinion, which means it must be Apocalypse fucking Now.

You brace yourself for the incoming onslaught of snarkery and subsequent horseshit. "Just like daddy use to make."

"Great. Glad you’re enjoying it." She shoves around a piece of egg on her plate.

Even John, the king of oblivious, is starting to feel the awkward tension. He shoots you a confused glance and you shrug. Goddamnit why do you always have to do everything.

"Is there something that you wanna share with the class Lalonde?" 

"Are you finished eating?"

"I am now." You drop the fork with a clatter and cross your arms over your chest. John leans forward nervously.

Rose opens her mouth but you cut her off. "Are you pregnant? Are you naming the baby after me? Rose how could you? No I mean really, biologically how could you, what with all the carpet you’ve been munching lately."

"Are you quite finished?"

"Yeah I guess so."

Rose looks like she wants to reach over the table and snap your arms off. You probably interrupted some delicately prepared confessional scenario she had prepared. Good.

Kanaya is the first one to crack. "So John, how were the rest of the films last night?"

You and Rose are still locked in a mortal staring contest so John seems relived to respond.

"Oh I love The NeverEnding Story! It was one of my favorites when I was little. It introduced me to the concept of ‘breaking the fourth wall’ within the narrative and its still one of the best examples of the trope in my opinion. Also I just think its an epic parallel quest! Atreyu recognizing his destiny as the hero, and Bastion finally gaining the confidence to stand up for himself! And its all with a little help from a certain luck dragon of course." He giggles. You can’t resist.

"More help than I think you realize."

"Dave, Falkor does not molest anyone!!! End of story!" His pouting lip in your peripheral is too damn cute. 

"Dude the story never ends. Did you even watch it?" You lose the staring contest when John punches you in the arm.

"Well how about the other film?" Rose gives Kanaya a sly look and fuck you know where this is going.

John clasps his hands under the table. "Well, Liv was great as usual, but I have to say, I didn’t really like watching her die." Oh my god is he tearing up he can’t be tearing up. Nope that isn’t a thing that’s happening, not at the breakfast table, not over the bacon.

"Calm down Egbert. You of all people should understand movie magic when you see it."

"That was not magic. That was horrifying." 

"Just because it wasn’t luck dragons or rainbow unicorn boners doesn’t mean it wasn’t magical."

Fuck, you walked right into that one. 

"Rainbow unicorn boners hmm?" You think Rose’s eyebrows might launch off of her forehead. Kanaya is trying not to laugh.

Time to face this like a Strider. AKA be simultaneously blunt and obtuse about whatever gay fanangling your dick and John’s dick might have been up to.

"The sparkliest boners of all. Cumming glitter all up in a bitch."

"Should I have the maid vacuum between the couch cushions then? I wouldn’t want my den to resemble a kindergarten art class."

"Inappropriate." 

John is flushed from the tips of his ears down past the collar of his shirt. You wish you could reach out and hug him but it would probably only make this homo intervention worse. Besides, its not like he was complaining last night, what with all the kissing and the grinding and the way he would moan quietly into your mouth like he didn’t want anyone to hear and the way his – 

"So, have you two finally decided to pursue the romantic tensions that have been underlying in your relationship?"

"What?" John sputters. You don’t open your mouth for once.

"Kanaya did report that you two were having a lovely time after our exit. This coupled with the kiss after Dave’s show would indicate that you want each other physically." 

John gulps and gnaws on his bottom lip.

"And the give-and-take of your friendship signals that you crave each other on an emotional level."

Kanaya has the decency to look reasonably ashamed, although she is an accomplice. Rose has gone full Freud, which means this encounter can only end with embarrassment and lots of dicks. You’re pretty ok with half of that outcome.

"Dave, I know you well enough to understand that you never make the first move, if that move could threaten your fragile grasp on emotional stability. John, you’re used to girls asking you out, is that correct?"

"Uh, well, yeah. That’s how all my relationships got started I guess." He doesn’t seem quite as mortified as he did earlier, and he manages to grin sheepishly. The muscles in your shoulders relax slightly.

"Therefore, neither of you was going to go out on a limb and ask the other out. Quite frankly, this whole thing is infuriating and its testing my patience." She cocks an eyebrow and leans back in her chair smugly like some goddamn mastermind from one of John's shitty action movies. "So I am going to do it for you. Consider me the deus ex machina for hopeless boylove."

"This is not your decision Rose." You aren't quite as mad as your tone would suggest, but be damned if you are ever going to let her know. Actually you’re positive that she already knows.

"Of course it isn’t my decision. But I have an inkling that if one of you were to pose the question right now, the other wouldn’t refuse." God her smirk is killing your dignity.

"Fine." You push back from the table, making the chair echo loudly on the hardwood. John looks wary, so you figure that you had better make this quick.

You take one of John’s hands into yours and he practically squeaks, then you slip down onto one knee. Before he can pull away, you clear your throat and remove your shades. The ambient daylight burns like a bitch, but your gaze seems to capture him. 

"John, it would make the homo part of my little heart soar if you would agree to go on a formal, completely unironic date with me sometime in the near future, with the possibility of more sloppy makeouts in similarly awkward locations and perhaps the prospect of your dick being somewhere in or around my mouth."

You know you’ve got him because the bastard grins so wide that you think he might break his face.

"I do." 

You aren’t expecting him to lean down and kiss you. He tastes like bacon and its perfect.

When he pulls away, you grab your eye wear and reposition it on your nose. Rose and Kanaya clap, and you perform a mocking bow before returning to your chair. John is blushing and taking the whole thing very seriously, which is just about the only way you could imagine him acting during this ridiculous meddlesome display.

"Can I finish my grits now?"

"Be my guest."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

You offer to help Rose with the dishes. Translation: "get in the kitchen I need to tell you what a huge shit you are."

"I can’t believe you did that. I am fucking astounded that you thought it was a good idea to go there." You slide the leftover biscuits into a plastic zip baggie.

"Nothing bad happened. The outcome was overwhelmingly favorable for you, so I don’t know why you’re complaining."

"Yea but what if he hadn’t reacted that way Rose? Y’know, hetero converts are generally not the most open to being publicly confronted about wanting another man’s meat stick."

"He had his tongue in your mouth last night. I sincerely doubt that he would have rejected your offer simply because you are male. You have plenty of traits that are worse than your Y-chromosome."

"Shut up. I think that deep down, beyond that mountain of sass and the overestimation of your people skills, you know what could have happened if he decided that he didn't want this fine piece of Strider."

"You would be devastated, and I would feel guilty." She glances down at the floor, and for a moment you think she understands the ramifications of playing matchmaking god. "But it didn’t happen, so I was right." Never mind.

"Besides . . ." She meets your gaze and you swear she can always make eye contact with you, even through your shades. "If he had rejected you, then he’s not nearly fucking good enough for my brother."

She grimaces after the admission, and you know that she hates indulging personal bullshit just about as much as you do. 

You hold up a fist for her to bump. She obliges.

"You’re a real piece of work Lalonde, I don’t know how Yaya puts up with you."

"Lesbihonest, she’s only in it for the pussy."

You choke. Rose smiles wickedly and she looks more like she did when you were kids. Back then she used to be less pedantic, back before college and her success, back when she shoved an ice cream down your shirt because you called her a know-it-all.

"This conversation is over." You exit the kitchen and try to brush off your nostalgia and reestablish your cool. 

John is talking animatedly with Kanaya. He seems to barely pause for a breath in his dialogue, but when he sees you, he stops mid-sentence to smile in your direction. You notice a bit of drool is hanging from the corner of his mouth, probably a result of his rapid talking.

You have a date with that guy.

Fuck yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://i47.tinypic.com/2uyt9xc.png


	8. blatantly wonton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the plan was to give john a boner. and he got one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi how are you this one is semi longish hope you like it
> 
> sorry for screwing up new york so much ahaha i actually live in houston so it would have been way fucking easier to just write a dave fic in that setting idk why my brain thought i could tackle the big apple
> 
> i'm going to take this opportunity to be completely shameless and promote my homestuck blog: backspaceunlimited.tumblr.com
> 
> follow if you want to ask me things or see what other stuff i'm working on or request that i write you a drabble because i would love to
> 
> anyway hope you like it, i'll double check for typos tomorrow <3

"What’s your favorite animal?"

"Guess."

"Its gotta be something nauseatingly cute right? Red panda."

"Not even close Dave."

So a date. Right. Somehow it seems way less formal and stressful than you were expecting. After nixing A) kitschy romantic restaurants B) anything that would involve the two of you sitting in the cinema C) the gay bar and D) the regular bar, John got the brilliant idea that you two should go to the zoo.

“Chinchilla?”

“Ew no, those are like fluffy rats.”

You scrutinize the zoo map again. Maybe a different rodent.

“Beaver.”

“Excuse me.” He stops on the path in front of some zebras and glares you down. “Are you trying to say something?”

“Not a thing.” His mouth is hanging open slightly and the resemblance is too uncanny for you not to smirk at.

He punches you in the arm. The zebras look on in amusement.

“Dave its not nice to pick on your date, no matter how obtrusive a part of his body may be.” He grins at you slyly. “I mean I haven't said anything about how short you are, or how when you blush your face looks like a heavily freckled tomato.”

“Rude.” You're 5' 9", that's not short. Nope definitely not. And freckles are cute damnit.

“You had it coming!”

“So what's your favorite animal then? I'm not falling into another guessing trap.”

“I'll show you, c'mon.” He laces his fingers through yours and drags you forward quickly. His strides are too long and you almost jog to keep up with him.

You pass a large group of what look like high school kids. A few girls squeal and you see fingers directed at you and John. You resist the urge to point a different finger back.

Sometimes you think that teenage girls are more excited by your occasional bursts of homosexuality than you are.

John doesn't notice though because he's too busy plowing forward like a goddamn freight train to the mystery animal's habitat. At least he's still holding your hand.

All in all he's taking the whole ‘I want a dick that’s not mine’ thing pretty well. It worries you a little that he went from full closet to light PDA in the span of a little over a month, but you’ll take it right now. You just need to work up the balls to ask him about it later.

A little ways past the Himalaya exhibit he finally stops and gestures to a sign with his free hand. You just stare at it for a second.

“Bears. Your favorite animal is a bear.”

“Grizzly bear actually.” He pulls you towards the habitat. 

The smaller of the two brown bears is tentatively splashing around in the artificial pond, batting those frying-pan sized paws at a floating log. The other is passed out, ass in the air, on the top of a rock.

“Dave I swear, if you say that sleeping bear looks like me I will never talk to you again. Ever.”

“The bear looks a little like you.”

John makes a huffy noise and tries to pull away, but you grip his hand tighter and yank him towards you. He stumbles and crashes back into your side. The grizzly playing in the pond looks up as the two of your thump against the habitat fence.

You're suddenly very aware of John's butt, and how it is plastered against your bony hip.

John is oblivious to the spacial relativity of his ass.

“Dave, its looking at us.”

You lock eyes with the smaller bear and give it your best sneer. The furry asshole snorts at you.

“Tell it to fuck off.”

“Did you know these bears are trained to wave?” 

John lifts your clasped hands into the air and vigorously moves them back and forth. The bear does not wave back.

“Enough Egbert, you're gonna tear my arm out of the socket.”

“Fine.” He lets go of your hand completely.

“So why do you like them then?”

“Oh.” He cocks his head at you. “I guess they remind me of Washington. My dad and I used to see them sometimes when we went camping. From a distance of course.”

The bear bites the log with the sickening crunch.

“Definitely from a distance.”

“Right.”

You’re bored but you oblige John’s doofy grinning at the mundane bear existences for a few more minutes. You say oblige, but honestly its a selfish opportunity. He’s too distracted to notice how much you’re imagining kissing those stupid teeth. 

"Ok, I guess we can see your favorite animal now? If you want?" 

"Nah, lets just go ascend Tiger Mountain or whatever."

"Well I did want to see the Himalayan exhibit thing." John eyes you suspiciously. "Why won’t you tell me your favorite animal?"

"Guess."

"Is it a wild narcissistic yet paradoxically self-deprecating douche-bag?"

"Ding ding ding, we have a winner folks."

"Ok that isn’t an animal."

"You’re my favorite animal Egbert." You snake an arm around his waist and he lets out a defeated sigh.

"Fine. Will you at least tell me what part of the zoo your animal is in?"

"Reptile House."

"Damn."

\------------------

John doesn’t like snakes. Or lizards. Or iguanas. Or poisonous frogs. In fact there is only one thing in the entire goddamn reptile house that he does like.

Its a little yellow salamander. You guess its pretty cute. He stares at the thing through the glass for a while as it squirms around some leafy vegetation.

"Salamanders aren’t your favorite right?" He chews on his bottom lip when your shake your head.

You jab a thumb at the large glass exhibit towards the back of the house. "Its in there."

"Yesss." John turns and rushes ahead of you to see. You follow more slowly, and watch with amusement as he just shakes his head at it.

"Crocodile?"

"Alligator." The old guy is lazily floating just below the surface of its pond. You nod appreciatively.

"That’s weird."

"No way, gators are cool."

"Yeah man, along with mud wrestling and redneck . . . stuff."

"Shut the fuck up Egbert."

The alligator surfaces and begins to swim towards the glass barrier. John takes a step back.

"Chill dude, its not like it can get you or anything."

"It just makes me nervous, that thing is a cold-blooded killer."

"So are bears."

"Nuh uh." He looks at your like you’ve busted some sort of sanity gasket. "Bears are snuggly and they eat lots of berries and stuff."

"Along with the occasional rabbit, deer, person."

"I just don’t understand how you could possibly think that this is the best animal."

Yeah, you figured you might have to go here. Personal narrative. The phrase twists in your gut. "Long story. Pretty boring."

"Nope." John sets his face into a hard line and you know you aren’t getting out of it. "If we’re going to try to do . . . this . . ." he gestures vaguely between the two of you, "then you’re going to have to tell me things about yourself."

You raise your eyebrows and try your best to look annoyed. 

"Fine. Ok, so this one time when I was about six Bro took me to the Houston Zoo and it was like the fucking second coming because he never took me to any place that didn’t have ketchup packets or give me a healthy dose of diarrhea afterwards."

"Gross dude." He’s smiling like an idiot though. John never fails to be the happiest asshole around when you talk about Bro. 

"Don’t interrupt. Yea, he took me to the zoo and we looked at all the monkeys throwing their shit around and laughed at the fucking incredible rhinoceros balls cause holy fuck those things are huge and finally he took me to the reptile house. They have this gator there called Blanco that’s completely white, and Bro just pointed at it and said ‘That’s what we are.’ I was confused but then he told me it was albino and made it into this whole life lesson about how it was perfectly normal and how I shouldn’t feel weird. I guess it was one of the only times I remember him trying really hard to be like a dad? It just didn’t come natural to the guy at all. Anyway he basically said ‘Gators are badass and that makes us badass too, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’"

Ok John is actually going to pull a facial muscle and you aren’t going to do a damn thing about it.

"Of course then I found out later that the thing isn’t actually albino, its leucistic, so life lesson pretty much out the window." You shrug. "Still my favorite though."

"What’s leucistic?"

"It has blue eyes."

"Oh."

That bastard has the gnads to animatedly wink before grabbing your waist and hugging the shit out of you.

"Thank you for sharing Dave."

"You’re a bitch."

\---------------------------

You stay until just about zoo closing time at six. By then both of you are starving, so you drive around the neighborhood in John’s car for a while trying to find some fast food.

"Burger King?"

"Eh, lets try something else."

"Taco Bell?"

"Eww, no." John wrinkles his nose. He would never have survived your childhood.

"Well there isn’t a Whataburger above the fucking Mason-Dixon."

"You’ve never had In-N-Out, so that’s terrible."

He stops at a red light and pulls out his phone, quickly searching some food app. 

"It says that there’s a Panda Express two blocks down."

"Fuck yes." Fuck yes.

"You get way too excited about fast food."

He pulls into the drive-thru and you basically just order noodles and meat. Fuck vegetables. John’s voice talking through the speaker sounds so peppy and high pitched and you don’t know whether you want to hug him or fuck him or just eat your goddamned orange chicken.

You tell John that since you did the asking out, it’s your turn to pay (besides, he paid last time). He says that since he decided to go to the zoo, he should pay. You say that his logic is bullshit, and as you continue to rant about the social conventions that he’s violating, he slips a twenty out the window to the clerk. 

You make a mental note to spitefully eat both fortune cookies.

He pulls the car into an empty parking space and you unpack the food. Eating in the car in the parking lot of the restaurant where you just picked up food feels an awful lot like the three months of college you attended.

You begin rudely shoving chicken into your mouth, groaning because eating Panda Express is a transcendental experience.

John warily sniffs his food a few times before starting to eat it. He actually got a side of mixed veggies, who fucking does that?

"Its not gonna bite back."

He looks at you and grins. "I know, I was just wondering if I was going to like it."

You put on a show of absolute shock. Actually you don’t have to exaggerate much. 

"Why wouldn’t you like it. Who doesn’t like Panda Express."

He stabs a leek and chews on it. "I was never allowed to have it when I was little. Mom thought it was absolute blasphemy."

"What does she have stuck up her ass?"

"She was Chinese Dave. Also she’s dead."

"Oh." You fucking blundered into that one. Smooth fucking move Strider. "Oh I’m sorry man. I didn’t mean to –" 

Fuck him he’s laughing at you.

"Dave its ok! It was a long time ago but seriously you should have seen the look on your face."

"Fuck you dude."

So you’re an idiot, John’s half-Asian and you want to fuck him harder than you did ten minutes ago.

John decides that he likes the food, even if he could "totally make it better."

"Does that mean you’re gonna cook for me?"

He laughs. "If you want I guess. I’m not as good as mom."

"I would love to taste your eggroll babe."

"I don’t know how to make those from scrat – Ok that was really bad Dave, wow." He throws his empty takeout container into the back seat and slaps a palm to his forehead.

You feign shock and offense. "I can't believe you think I would be so blatantly wonton. To think that I would so obviously ask to kung pao your pork, to take a premature peking at your duck, grab a handful of steamed dumplings and go in for the pu pu platter. How dare you be so hot and sour."

John is frowning at you, and you smirk.

You lean over the gearshift to his side of the car: "Kiss me gingerly, don’t be chicken."

"Shut up."

He doesn’t kiss you gingerly at all. But it does shut you up.

He smothers your lips with his, then grabs your upper lip between his teeth, biting until it tingles. You let out a small gasp, and he takes the moment to shove his tongue in your mouth, wrapping it around yours. You play tongue tug-of-war for a few seconds, feeling your breath become ragged, and you move to snake your arms around his neck. 

Then he pulls away abruptly, and you’re left leaning over and probably looking like a huge hot mess. You open your eyes.

Nothing could have fucking prepared you for the sight of John fanning his open mouth with his hand. 

"Dave what did you eat??? You’re too spicy!"

You bark out a laugh, and slide back into your seat proper. Grabbing your plastic fork, you fish out one of the red thai chili peppers from your orange chicken and thrust it under his nose. He pulls back as far against his window as he can manage and clamps a hand over his face.

"It even smells spicy!"

"They add flavor. Most people don’t eat them. But I do."

John stares at you like you have four heads. "I can’t kiss you when your mouth is all spicy."

"Too hot for you?"

"Yes."

"Fair enough." You reach down into the takeout bag and grab one of those pre-packaged moist towelettes. If your hands get to go where you want them to go tonight, any spice residue is gonna burn like a bitch. 

John shifts back to a normal sitting position. "So...what do you want to do?"

"Wanna go back to my place?" You can’t look at him in case he sees how nervous the set of your mouth is.

He doesn’t respond, but simply throws the car in reverse and backs out of the parking space. That’s answer enough for you.

The car ride back is tense in the "I want to resume making out with you but you’re still too spicy" kind of way. After a few minutes, you chance running your fingers up the back of John’s neck and through his hair. You feel him shiver. Then he almost crashes the car. He grips the steering wheel tightly from then on, and you keep your hands to yourself.

He pulls into your parking garage at 8:22, and the motor is off at 8:24. By 8:24:15, John has you pinned against the passenger’s side door, and is running his tongue along the inside of your mouth.

"Better?" You manage to mumble into his mouth.

"Mmmrph."

He’s trailing kisses down from the corner of your lips, licking your sharp jawline. You groan and wrap your arms around his waist, feeling his love handles give slightly, and the muscles in his back shift to accommodate you. Goddamn. 

He’s moved down to your neck now and you’re sure he’s gonna leave a mark but you don’t give a shit cause the car is starting to steam up like some teenage lover’s lane scenario and holy fuck he bites down on your throat and you grab his ass roughly.

He bucks his hips under your hands and you realize that he’s humping the gearshift. There isn’t much room for him to crawl into your lap though, so he raises his head from your neck and brings his mouth to yours again. His lips are swollen and red and his blue eyes look so needy, like he wants nothing more than to rip your fucking clothes off. You wish he would.

But for once, its time to take control of the scenario. You slide your hands up his back until they are flush with his shoulders, then push him roughly off you and into the driver’s seat. He looks confused for a moment, until you reach over him and yank on his seat lever. The chair-back falls, taking John with it, and he yelps in surprise. Before he can fully recover, you’re in his lap, grinding your hard cock against his through layers of fabric. 

You rock back and forth slowly, laying breathy kisses that more often that not end with you running your tongue barbell over his lips, and him gasping.

"Fuck." You feel his mouth move beneath yours as you thrust your hips down for a particularly heavy grind. John bucks up into you, which throws you back slightly. Your butt presses down on the car horn, and both of you jump as the sound echoes through the parking garage.

"Oops." John grins sheepishly and you want nothing more that to see those lips moan your name.

"So John, figur’d I’d ask ya." You bite your bottom lip to try and get your accent under fucking control. You aren’t nearly horny enough for this yet.

Either John doesn’t notice the slip or it turns him on, because when you lean down and whisper ear "you gonna let me suck your dick?" he whimpers desperately. 

You reposition your body so that your knees are in the passengers seat and you are leaning over John. You trail your fingers up his stomach, hiking back his shirt in the process. His pudgy stomach is covered with black hair that disappears below the waistband of his jeans.

When you put a light pressure on his cock, he inhales and presses into your hand. You squeeze around his length, which earns you a breathy "Shit." 

That’s all you needed to hear. You get to work unbuttoning and unzipping, pulling back denim until you reveal a pair of black boxers. You wanted to take this slow, seeing as its his first time having his dick sucked by dude, but you can’t help yourself. You’ve got it bad for this particular dick.

You roughly pull down the elastic on his underwear and his cock springs out, falling to rest against the curve of his stomach. Fuck. He’s got some girth on him.

You waste no time giving a tentative lick to the underside of his cock head, and he inhales sharply at the sensation. At the angle he’s laying at means he can’t actually see what you’re doing, which works to your satisfaction when you take his head in your mouth and begin sucking on it. 

He’s doing his best not to thrust into your mouth because his hips are squirming beneath your hands. You flatten your tongue and run in along the underside of his cock, flicking your barbell out occasionally. Every time it hits you can feel him shudder beneath you.

You use your hand to pump the part of his dick that you can’t quite fit into your mouth. His panting is making you to moan around his length because lets face it, you’ve always been a bit of an exhibitionist and definitely a cockslut and you love the taste of his skin and his precum and he feels so warm beneath you. You give particularly hard suck and a quiet moan escapes his lips. 

"Dave, I’m -" He doesn’t really give you much warning though as he thrusts into your mouth. You jerk back slightly and he empties his load more on your mouth than inside it. You do your best to lick the cum from your lips as you stoke him softly, stopping when he bucks due to oversensitivity. He doesn’t taste half bad. Better than the few other dicks you’ve sucked. The man eats his vegetables.

You let his softening cock bounce idly against his stomach, and watch him as he lays panting in the afterglow, eyes squinted shut. 

Making sure to not brush up against his dick, you lean up and lay a very chaste kiss on his mouth. Your lips brush his as you speak: "I want you to fuck me John."

"What?" His eyes are kind of wide and he looks nervous and fuck you probably shouldn’t have pulled this out on the first date like a desperate asshole. You pull back and notice that you got a bit of his own spunk onto his chin. Oops.

Apparently none of your dundering really matters though because he pulls you back down and kisses you hard and when smiles against your lips the anxiety is gone and filled with something that looks like amusement.

"You want me. To put my dick. In your butt." He pants through the phrase, but you know that mischievous grin.

"I want you to stick that cock all up in my butt." You flick your tongue across the shell of his ear. "Way up there."

John starts laughing and you can’t help but grin in return. He quickly tucks himself back into his pants and zips up. His eyes flick more than once to the bulge in your pants, where you’re still painfully hard.

When you exit the car the cool air hits; you both shudder and realize how sweaty it was in there. The trip up the stairs is more sucking face and tripping over one another than it is actual coordinated ascension. The old woman on fifth nods as you and John pass by, still sharing a sloppy kiss. You give her a thumbs up, and she grins into her stitches.

Its hard to get your keys out of your pocket when you get to the door, and you drop them once with a loud clatter and a curse. 

"Hurry up Dave." John is nipping at your shoulder and pressing his thumbs into your hips.

You retrieve the keys and force them into the lock. John shoves your back into the door with a thud and starts to kiss you greedily. He turns the key himself and pushes you backwards through the open door by pressing his body against yours.

You cross the threshold and are just about to guide him to your bed when the fucker pulls away.

What is with this guy and stopping mid-makeout.

But he has the same expression on his face now as he did when he thought Kanaya was a knife murderer, and he’s looking just over your shoulder.

"Hey kids."

You don’t want to turn around. You seriously don’t want to turn around. Nope you’re going to walk right back out the door and leave and just completely find a new fucking apartment and fuck there you go turning around.

"Am I interuptin’ somethin’?" Bro is just draped over the couch nonchalantly. He’s got Deal or No Deal on the television and a half-empty six-pack sitting in front of him.

Neither you nor John say anything for a good two minutes. Bro just watches you watching him with a look of amusement.

Finally you find your throat. "You didn’t tell me you were coming."

"Do I ever?"

"No."

A light bulb must click for John finally because he stutters "Wait. You’re Bro, aren’t you?"

Bro turns his shaded gaze on John. "Yep. Seein’ as Dave’s mentioned my existence, this probably isn’t a one-night stand. Good. I raised him better than bein’ a floozy."

John reddens and his mouth hangs open. 

"Bro. Get out. Find a hotel. I’ll see you tomorrow." Its an even response, and you’re surprised at how well you were able to maintain your cool.

Bro hoists himself off the couch with a grunt. "Fine, but I’m stayin’ with ya for the next week, so get it outta your system tonight. Unless you’re cool with banging while I’m in the livin’ room, then whatever." 

"Out. Now." He strides past you and calmly ruffles your hair. You watch him exit the still open door, and he tosses something over his left shoulder. A condom lands at your feet. 

"Be safe you two!" echoes from the stairwell.

John is the first one to be able to move, so he closes the door. He turns back to you with sort of a lopsided grin.

"Where were we?" He puts a hand on your chest and there it is, your boner is back full force.

You kiss him deeply while walking into the bedroom, and fumble with turning on the light switch. 

This time its you who pulls away. You can’t fucking do this.

"What is that?" John points to your bed.

Lil Cal’s jaw clacks open.

Nope. 

Nope.

Nopenopenopenope. NOPE.

You back out of the room and walk quickly to slump on the couch. John follows and sits next to you.

"What’s wrong? What is that?"

"A thing of nightmares." There’s no way you’re getting it back up tonight. No way.

John must figure this because he doesn’t try anything else. The two of you watch the game show network until you feel him slump against you. His light snoring lulls you into a passive wave of drowsiness, and you feel yourself drifting off, even with that thing in the other room.

Bro Strider: biggest cockblock in the history of the fucking universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://img704.imageshack.us/img704/3269/image572.gif


	9. wearing a turtleneck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bromance blossoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello how are you hope you like this even though its kind of filler that i need for the story to make some sense in the next chapter. i'll check for typos again later eurgh i am so bad at not having tons of those
> 
> i'm gonna plug my blog again: backspaceunlimited.tumblr.com
> 
> come for updates and drabble requests and just generally me acting like a huge dork
> 
> <3333333333333333333333333333333

There's that space between waking and sleeping where the brain produces the fucking strangest half dreams, like reality shat out its subconscious all over your limbic system. These are the dreams where your buzzing alarm clock becomes a missile siren, or the bumpy passengers seat of a moving vehicle becomes a tanker ship, or you accidentally have sex with your sister while wearing stylish purple moon pajamas.

We don't talk about the purple moon jammies.

Incest aside, you're aware enough of your semi-consciousness to know that you're dreaming. Which is why you almost have to laugh at how fucking ridiculous this particular iteration is.

You can hear a muffled conversation, distorted slightly as if coming from another room. You know you're fucking dreaming, mainly because the people talking sound like Bro and John. This is absurd on multiple levels. On all the levels.

Bro doesn't have sincere conversations. Especially not about the things his dream self is talking about.

“Kid's a little shit. Always was.”

“Yea, I have to basically pry stuff out of him. Not that I'm really complaining though.”

“He's got a lot of feelin's an' insecurities, most a which are probably my fault. He's not dumb or anythin'. He just takes after me in that he wants to do what he wants to do, and can't stand bein' bound to someone else's rules.”

“Isn't that what a relationship is about though?”

“Yep, which is probably why I personally can't fuckin' keep in one.”

“He seems to be ok with things so far.”

“From the tender eye fuckin' he was givin' you last night, I'd say he's head over dicks for you.”

“Bluh. I dunno. I mean I've never been with a guy before, so I don't really know what is supposed to feel right I guess.”

“Guys are easy Egbert, just do what you would want done to yourself. Also the fact that you went homo for the little man is pretty damn adorable.”

“Hey I'm straight. I just like Dave.”

“God I can see why the little fucker likes you.”

Your eyes are fully open by now and nope this can't be fucking happening.

Okay. So. Your Bro. Is talking. To John. Like its fucking Sunday Luby's lunch after church, get a plastic tray and pile up the cafeteria home cooking, light on the salt cause grandma bloats. God you can just imagine them in shitty suits with those little cups of cubed jello fuck.

So the current options are: a) pretend to be asleep until John leaves b) walk into the kitchen like you own the place which technically isn't true but you do pay goddamn rent so its basically yours c) you grab your katana and seppuku yourself across the coffee table.

You think that you're handling this well.

“He always seems to clam up when I ask about you. I mean, what is your relationship anyway? You're not his dad right?”

“Nah, I'm actually his brother. I'd already left home when he was born though. Our parents basically couldn't handle themselves and jumped out a window together. Splat, right on the pavement.”

“Oh my god. He never -”

“Its not like he would remember, when I got 'em he was maybe six months old. I was nineteen and pretty fuckin' stupid. I didn't know the first thing about raisin' a kid, so he gets most of his malfunction and idiosyncrasies from me.”

Ok, you have to fucking stop this. This is the closest thing to apologetic that Bro has ever fucking been and its directed at some random guy who had a massive boner the first time they met.

You yawn loudly.

“Yeah, most of his issues stem from -” Bro cuts off mid sentence.

You hoist yourself off the couch and try to put on a bedraggled nonchalant stance. It might work if you can stop gnawing on your bottom lip, an overly-emotional habit you've picked up from John.

You slouch into the kitchen and see Bro and John leaning on the counter next to one another. John grins and you have to stop yourself from smiling in response. Damnit, being around him so much has gotten you out of practice as far as your apathetic exterior goes.

Contrary to what you just overheard, Bro's facade hasn't slipped in the slightest. 

He nods at you. You nod back. He looks down at those stupid gloves and flexes his fingers. You gaze vaguely at the coffee pot.

John looks like someone just started yelling at him in Elvish.

“Morning Dave, I was just talking to your Bro and -”

“Coffee.” You cut him off and reach for a dirty mug from the sink.

You fill the cup to the brim and take a large swing. The bitterness helps to set your general feeling of bitterness.

John tries again. “So, what are you guys going to do while you're in town Bro?” He looks between the two of you questioningly. 

You shrug. Bro shrugs. You look at his stupid pointy shades. He stares in the general direction of your face. John looks like he might shit himself.

“Well I mean I recommend the MET, and that's pretty close to Central Park if you -”

Bro holds up a finger. John stops speaking.

“Roof.” He flicks his jawline up.

You nod.

He's out of the room and onto the fire escape faster than you thought was possible. You're sure he probably scoped out the strife situation last night before you got home, but damn, the man works fast. 

“Dave, what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing. The usual bullshit.” You tug off your shirt and John gapes at you.

You grab your katana and hoist yourself out the window. The rusty metal steps groan as you take them two at a time.

Bro is just fucking standing there with his hairy old man chest fluttering in the breeze. Being away from him for a while, you can see how he's aged. The guy's over forty now, practically begging to be put in the ground.

You rethink that when he lunges forward and takes a swipe at you.

How he got his sword on the fucking airplane you'll never know, but the swing is so close that you feel the wind from it against your throat.

“Still slow.”

You cast a swipe back at him but he's already fifteen feet back. Douche.

He wastes no time coming at you again, but this time you bring up your sword and it clashes with a metallic scrape against his blade. You roll to the side, letting his momentum carry him forward, and then leap at his exposed left side. 

At the last second he turns to block, but you can see from the set of his mouth that he's surprised by the angle of attack. That's right bitch.

But then he kicks it up a notch, and you see that his years of experience starting to trump your machine training and youthful spryness.

He fakes you out, lunging right and then sidestepping left, and thwacks your across the side of the head with the hilt of his sword.

The blow is harder than you expected, maybe harder than he intended, and you try desperately to knock off a daze while dodging his incoming assault. From out of fucking nowhere, his foot hits you square in the center of the chest, and you are thrown backwards, off balance and wheeling upright.

“Dave, look out!”

You glance over at John, who is standing with his hand over his mouth and an abject look of horror strung out across his features.

That was the wrong place to look.

You feel it before you hear it, a sharp sting that courses diagonally from your collarbone to your ribs. That's all it takes for you to lose your balance completely, and you fall backwards, the exposed skin on your back grinding into the rooftop gravel. You feel a point at your throat, which solidifies the fact that Bro has won this round.

“Distracted.”

He steps back stiffly and lowers his blade. You haul yourself up, glancing down to see the fresh cut across your chest. Its not deep, and you're glad you at least didn't ruin a good shirt. You feel a few scrapes on your back also, but you try to appear calm. Its not like you haven't had worse.

John rushes over but stops about ten feet away from the two of you. If Bro wasn't around you probably would laugh at him.

His brows are knit, and his face keeps flashing with something bordering on concern, fear, and this little subtle lip bite.

You realize how sweaty you are. How sweaty Bro is. For an old dude his body is fucking lithe, and you're not bad in the abs department either. John glances down at your chest. Then he looks at Bro.

Oh.

You hear a snicker next to you.

“Not very subtle are we Egbert.”

“What?” John stammers, and you see a hint of flush highlight his cheeks.

You know exactly where Bro is gonna take this. If there's one thing you learned from the guy, its how to throw someone off his mental balance, Strider style.

You force an exaggerated smirk to match the one you know is on Bro's face. 

“Why didn't you tell me you were into threesomes, John?”

“Double your Strider to double your fun.” Bro's voice is getting huskier, fuck he always has to outdo you.

“Whats a little incest between friends hmm?” You hold out a hand out without looking away from John. Bro laces his fingers between yours.

John opens and closes his mouth in a way that would be unattractive if it wasn't fucking adorable.

“I'm going inside now.” He turns on his heels and clambers down the fire escape.

You drop Bro's hand as soon as John's out of sight.

Now for the awkward part.

You know that Bro knows you heard some of his conversation with John. You doubt he knows how much.

“So I take it from your staged entry into the kitchen that y'heard my little confessional this mornin'?” He idly rubs some blood from his sword onto his pants.

“Yeah.” Neither of you look at the other. Its pretty standard dialogue, if not a little verbose.

He clears his throat. “I was just checkin' to see if Egbert was up to snuff.”

“He is." You snort. “If our hint at brother fucking didn't scare him off.”

“Nah. Can't really blame 'im for wantin' two Striders at once.”

“Damn straight.”

“Besides.” Bro smirks lopsidedly. “This'll give me somethin' to talk about with the ladies at the book club.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, they'll be down with it. I can't even tell you how much ass I got after bringin' some actual bondage equipment to the 50 Shades of Grey meeting.”

“Oh my god.”

He barks out a gruff laugh. You forgot how easy it actually was to be around the guy, without anyone else around that is. He's cryptic as hell, and a complete asshole, and constantly keeping you on your fucking toes at the worst possible moments. But you get it, cause its how you grew up, how he raised you. The familiarity trumps any negative emotions. Well, most negative emotions.

You've been too hard on the guy. Not that you would ever admit it. Not that he would ever want you to.

“So, y'think Egbert's had enough time to jack himself yet?”

“Only one way to find out.”

\--------------------------------

Turns out that John is half a glass deep into the bottle of Crown that you keep on top of the fridge, and pacing around the living room. You crawl through the window followed by Bro. John looks at you both distrustfully, like you're gonna jump his dick or something. 

But that doesn't last long. As oblivious as he is, he must sense the lighter atmosphere, or notice the way your deadpan has shifted into a smirk. He grins and flops down on the couch. You sit next to him and wrap a sweaty arm around his shoulders.

“Doesn't that hurt?” He pokes your chest where the blood has pretty much clotted.

“Nah.” You grab the liquor bottle on the table a take a swing, then offer it to Bro, who is standing off to the side with crossed arms.

“Nope. I actually have shit to do today kiddos.” He grunts and walks into your bedroom, returning with the a small toiletries bag. “Gonna shower.”

He shuts the door behind him.

“So, wanna fuck?” You loll your head to the side and give your best smoldering glance.

“You smell dude.” He worms his way out from under you and turns on the TV.

Family Feud is on. Steve Harvey hits on barely legal girls and John tries to shout the answers before the contestants can. He's really good at it actually.

“Name something that gets easier the more often you do it.”

“GETTING INTIMATE!” John shouts across the room to the TV. Its the top answer.

You tip your shades down, looking incredulously at him over the frames for a second. “Something on your mind?”

He swallows. “No, I was just answering the question.” His eyes flick down to your pants.

“Its not like I'm gonna stop you.”

He exhales heavily and purses his lips before softly placing a hand on the front of your jeans.

You study his face as he explores you, tracing the seams on the zipper with long fingers and poking the button. He hasn't even come close to putting pressure on you, but proximity alone has you growing hard. Your body is a traitorous asshole.

He meets your eyes for a moment and you quirk an eyebrow.

“Fine.” He uses both his hands to fumble with the button, and slowly pulls down your zipper. You shift your hips so that he has easier access to your underwear, but also because the cloth is starting to stretch painfully tight across your erection.

“I guess that answers the question.” John chews his bottom lip.

“What question?”

“Boxers or briefs.” He squeezes you through your bright red underoos and you press up into his hand.

“Fuck you.”

John reaches under the waistband of your underwear and pulls out your dick. You're extremely hard at this point, and you just want him to start pumping you.

Instead, he looks confused.

“What is this?”

“Its my fucking dick dude, what else would it be.” Holy shit what's wrong with it. You're smaller than he is but that shouldn't matter too much especially since he's never been with another guy.

“Why is it . . . wearing a turtleneck?”

Oh. “I'm uncut you asshole.” You guess if he's only ever seen his own then yeah he could get confused. Still.

“How do you not fucking know the difference between circumcised and uncircumcised?”

He frowns. “I mean I know its a thing I just haven't ever seen one before.”

You are so losing your boner.

“I don't really know what the big difference is -” He tentatively slides the outer skin back over your head and you let out a soft groan.

“Oh. Its - ”

“Sensitive.” You gasp. Boner regained.

“Oh.” He picks up a slow rhythm, mimicking what your sure are his own masturbation habits. He's got this tick where he flicks his wrist up when he gets to the head and fuck you're gonna have to start doing that.

He increases his speed and you're bucking underneath him and your mouth is one constant moan that he smothers with his tongue. For his first handjob he's doing a damn good job, and after a few minutes you are starting to feel warmth spreading down your torso and holy shit.

The shower turns off just as you let out a huge groan.

“FuuuuuuckJOHN holyshit.” You spill out over his hand and he bites your lip. You caress his tongue with your own through your shuddering aftershocks, until your cock becomes too sensitive and you pull your hips away.

The door to the bathroom flies open.

“I definitely heard that hanky panky. Show me your hands kids.”

You roll your eyes. John actually reacts by holding up his hands in the air.

Some of your spunk drips down his wrist.

“Put 'em down Egbert, I've seen more than enough.”

John pulls his hands down quickly, flushing slightly when he sees the contents of his palm. He waits until Bro is in your bedroom with the door closed before tentatively licking his finger.

The face he makes is of utter disgust.

“Is this what I taste like?”

“Don't tell me you've never tasted your own brand.”

He wrinkles his nose. “No, gross dude. That's gay.”

“I don't suppose the irony of the situation is lost on you.” A grin tugs at the corner of your mouth. “You aren't that bad actually. I don't eat much fruit.”

“Well then I'm gonna fix that. Ugh.” He shudders and wipes his hand on your jeans.

Bro barges out the door a few minutes later in a full suit. His baseball cap is gone, his hair is combed, and he actually looks almost like a regular fucking human being. Except for his shades.

“How do I look?” He turns around and you cat-call him.

He shakes his head. “I've got a meeting with some higher ups in the adult industry.” He snorts. “Probably just some assholes that want to buy out the Smuppet brand. But on the off chance that they're lookin' for advanced markettin' opportunities, well, I might be able to entertain the notion.” 

You don't notice Lil Cal until Bro clasps him around his shoulders.

“I'm off, you boys b'good.”

You wait until Bro's out the door before you grab John and stick your tongue down his throat.

“Fuck Dave.” John is curently reacting to your hand trying to worm its way into his pants.

“Want to?” You nip at his neck, and his breath hitches.

He tilts his head to whisper in your ear. “You still smell.”

You immediately pull away and the two of you spend the rest of the afternoon getting drunk and winning the shit out of Family Feud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://oi48.tinypic.com/2z5j23c.jpg


	10. kinks to work out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dave fucks up. bro just fucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gosh i had worlds of trouble formatting this but ok i have it its short and its a logical break before the best stuff of all is gonna happen so enjoy
> 
> backspaceunlimited.tumblr.com
> 
> ^^^ send me requests and i will write them for you <33333

Its 1:23am and Bro isn't back yet. A painfully sobering John left a few hours ago with a plastic bag in tow, claiming that he had a metric fuckton of work to do when he got home.

You won't deny the fact that you're disappointed at not getting a piece of that ass. As much as the guy seems to exaggerate his emotions, you still can't tell what he's really thinking most of the time. Which frankly sucks a massive dick. That isn't yours.

Oh fucking well. You pour yourself another drink and sink deep into the couch cushions, eyes glued to an infomercial for the Pos-T-Vac penis pump. Shit.

\-----------

“Wake up Dave.”

“Mmmno”

“C'mon.”

“NoBrooo. Ten m'minutes.” Holy shit in the urinal at the nearest Taco Bell your head is gonna fucking explode.

A heavy thwack in the back of your skull kills any lingering drowsiness. You just hurt. All over.

“What the fuck do you want?” You crack your eyes to look at Bro, who is standing over you. The filtered light through your shades sends a stab of pain coursing through your forehead.

“Change 'a plans.”

“Fuck.” You hang your head and see that the glass you had been drinking from last night is overturned in your lap. A urine colored stain trails down the inside seam of your jeans. You sincerely hope that its just spilled booze. “Do I smell like piss?”

“No. But if you're into that, I can recommend a few websites.” He taps his index finger on his nose impatiently.

“Ugh.” You shift and place the glass on the table. Your head pounds as it clatters sharply. “What do you want?”

“Long story short, took a proposition for some expansion to Plush Rump. This guys gonna let me keep full rights, and he does't even want a chunk 'a change. Just wants his name tied to the enterprise.”

You don't fucking care. “Why does this concern me.”

“We signed a contract last night, deal's set. I just wanted you to know that I'm stayin' in New York for a while longer than I planned.” He smirks at your exasperated sigh. “Don't look s'depressed kiddo. I'm actually gonna be stayin' with the guy. We've got a lotta kinks to work out.”

He's got that fucking shit eating grin on and you just know this bastard isn't telling you the whole story. Not that he ever does but still. Fuck. Why is he making you curious when it hurts your brain to even process cognition.

“What exactly is he gonna contribute to your fucked up felt schlong empire?”

“He's got an extensive collection of exotic taxidermy.”

“No.” You put your head in your hands, trying to stave off the invading images of some mounted deer head fucking a smuppet.

“Anyway, I'm gonna go get some of my stuff. I'll be poppin' in an' out occasionally, so put a sock on the door if you're screwin'.”

He trumps into your bedroom and comes out lugging his suitcase. He digs around for a few minutes, grabbing extra clothes and more smuppets than you would have liked to know were in your bedroom.

“You're leaving right now?”

“Yea, got a lotta work to do.” He places an armful of smuppets on the coffee table with a squeak. They're fucking staring at you. 

You swear that all the man owns is white polo shirts. He told you once that they were 'great for hidin' jizz stains.' This is why you don't even want to know when he shucks off his shirt in favor of a clean one.

You can't help but follow the line of his torso down to his hips. Below his terrible farmer's tan, his skin is stark white like yours. Which is why the fresh hand-print shaped bruises stand out in stark clarity on his hipbones.

“What.”

Bro follows your gaze and smirks. 

“Like I said, an' I got plenty 'a kinks to work out.” He slides on a fresh shirt, and before you can question him further he's out the door, smuppets under one arm and clothes under the other.

Its too early for this bullshit.

The Pesterchum notification pings from your phone. You take it up with a groan, hoping its John.

\-- Bro [BRO] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:13-- 

How he got that chumhandle is still a mystery of the goddamn universe.

BRO: Don't try to contact me by cellphone or chat.  
BRO: I won't answer.  
BRO: If you need me desperately, call information and ask for the residence of 'Mr. Harley.' They'll know who you're talking about.  
BRO: But seriously, don't call me.

\-- Bro [BRO] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:15-- 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 11:16:43 –

TG: john  
TG: hello  
TG: paging the mothership  
TG: i'm on the line with some seriously funked up shit  
TG: even george clinton's lookin at it like  
TG: i don't even know what to do with this  
TG: and i used to wear neon sparkly underpants on stage  
TG: john  
TG: john  
TG: ok i know you've got your critical finger thrust firmly up nic cage's ass or something  
EB: kevin bacon.  
EB: i'm doing a piece on kevin bacon.  
TG: oh  
TG: ok but still  
EB: what have you got your red panties in a wad over?  
TG: rude  
TG: wait you're right i haven't actually changed them since you last saw  
TG: oops  
TG: anyway  
TG: remember that bro had that meeting to go to yesterday  
TG: for plush rump  
EB: yeah, why?  
TG: well he took some deal  
TG: and apparently he's fucking the guy that he's collaborating with  
EB: how do you know that?  
TG: he had handprint bruises on his sides this morning  
TG: like huge meaty handprints like the guy must be part gorilla or something  
TG: shit  
EB: oh. that's definitive i guess.  
EB: why is it an issue?  
TG: oh i don't know john let me think  
TG: the guy has been in town for two days  
TG: and he's already got more dick than he can handle  
TG: and i haven't gotten laid in fucking months  
EB: . . .   
TG: like what's his secret egbert tell me objectively  
TG: is it his abs because i'll be the first to admit that those are a gift from the cosmos  
EB: . . .  
TG: can't be his personality  
TG: maybe his charisma  
TG: i dunno i'm just banging my head against the wall here what do you think   
EB: . . .   
EB maybe its because he's not a complete horse's ass.  
TG: highly unlikely  
EB: dave you're an idiot.  
EB: just shut up.  
EB: i have work to do.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] has ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:28--

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 11:29 –

TG: as much as I can feel my dick shriveling for just entertaining the notion  
TG: of willingly asking you to use your fucking psychobabble prowess  
TG: help  
TG: john is mad at me  
TG: i don't know what i did  
TT: What did you say to him?  
TG: what do you mean what did i say  
TT: Well you obviously said something.  
TG: i was just telling him about bro's bullshit  
TG: wait you don't actually know that story  
TG: let me send you the chat  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] sent tentacleTherapist [TT] file "carelesswhisper.txt"   
TT: Give me a moment.  
TT: Dave, you're an idiot.  
TG: yeah yeah that's what he said too  
TT: You basically placed the entire emphasis of your relationship on him putting out.  
TG: no i didn't i would remember that let me look  
TG: oh god  
TG: fuck  
TG: no that's not what I meant at all  
TT: Also, objectively, its definitely his abs.  
TG: that isn't objective you are his sister and also a lesbian  
TT: Just saying.  
TG: shit how do i fix this  
TT: Well if you're looking for my professional opinion . . .  
TG: here it comes  
TT: I think you should call him. On the phone. And apologize.  
TG: i have to talk on the phone  
TT: It would be the most direct way to reach him, short of actually showing up at his apartment.  
TG: i don't actually know where that is  
TT: Hmm.  
TG: don't even start  
TG: ok thanks if i can thank you for insulting me and giving me impossible advice  
TT: Talking on the phone isn't impossible Dave.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 11:36 –

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck yourself with a giant metal dildo. Fuck yourself with a goddamn vibrating deluxe smuppet. Fuck yourself with the Statue of Liberty. Fuck yourself with a giant metaphor for every time you've screwed up something that was going really fucking well. Then don't fuck yourself at all cause that's what got you into this shit in the first place.

Rose is right. Goddamn that has to be the worse sentence ever constructed in any language. You fiddle around with your phone for a few minutes, pulling up John's contact info and manually type in the number. You take a deep breath and press call.

Ring.

Ring again.

Ring again.

Ring a-fucking-gain

“Hello?”

“John. Hey, uhm. I just-”

Laughter startles you from across the phone line.

“GOT YOU! Oh man, I'll bet you started trying to talk to me and everything. I wish I could have seen the look on your face. Anyway this is John Egbert's voicemail. I'm not here so leave a message and I'll call you back.”

Beep.

Click.

Fuck.

Ok, two options: he didn’t answer you intentionally, or he doesn’t have his phone on him. Your brain automatically goes to the worst possible scenario. He saw you calling and immediately threw his cell against the wall in a fit of rage, where it shattered and now his boss is going to be angry because that was his work phone and he won’t get the calls he needs for his job and he’ll be fired and its all your fault.

You ruined his life because you couldn’t stop thinking about your dick. Way to go Strider.

No this is so stupid. You’re so stupid.

You yank out your Mac and pull up Google, searching for ‘how to apologize to your boyfriend for hurting his feelings.’ 

Wait, he’s not really your boyfriend. 

‘how to apologize to your fuck buddy who you’ve never actually fucked and definitely have romantic feelings towards for only wanting sex.’ No. Actually just no.

You look at Pesterchum again for people to crowd source from. Hopefully someone you will likely never see in person ever again.

Terezi is on. But you aren’t gonna ask your ex-girlfriend how to get back into John’s good graces. Besides, she’d probably get off to it.

There’s a few others from your hometown who don’t know that you dig men sometimes, so no. Hmm, this could work. You double click on a handle.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA] at 11:55 –

TG: hey dude  
TG: sup  
TA: who the fuck are you?  
TG: oh i’m dave  
TG: did that shoot for you a few months back remember  
TA: oh yeah.  
TA: ii2 your computer 2crewiing up already?  
TA: god ii knew you were kiind of den2e but 2eriiou2ly iit 2hould have la2ted you longer than that.  
TG: no  
TG: fuck this was a stupid idea  
TA: what are you even talkiing about?  
TA: are you drunk or 2omethiing?  
TA: oh waiit ii know what thii2 ii2.  
TG: no  
TA: iif you wanted a booty call you 2hould have ju2t a2ked.  
TG: no  
TA: iif you 2ay 2o.  
TG: i actually have a thing going right now  
TA: by thiing you mean a romantiic entanglement.  
TG: yea but  
TG: well  
TG: i screwed it up with him and he won’t answer his phone  
TG: and i’m kind of freaking out i guess  
TA: 2o you pe2ter some guy you fucked once for adviice.  
TA: actually ii can’t really blame you much, ii would probably do 2omethiing 2iimiilar.  
TA: diid you try google?  
TG: yea it didn’t work  
TA: uh ok.   
TA: hey do you 2tiill have tho2e photo2 you took of u2?  
TG: the professional ones or the compromising ones  
TA: the one2 wiithout clothe2.  
TG: yeah i mean i’m not doing anything with them but  
TG: you have a nice form for angular study  
TA: thank2 ii thiink.  
TG: if you want them back i can give you all the prints and negatives and stuff  
TA: no ii’m not worriied or anythiing, iit2 not liike they could ruiin my career of beiing a 2hut iin.  
TA: but maybe you 2hould take piictures of thiis per2on.  
TG: what do you mean  
TA: ii dunno thii2 ii2 2tupiid.  
TA: iit2 ju2t, you ravii2hiing my body with a camera made me feel pretty damn iimportant for a one niight 2tand.  
TG: huh  
TG: actually  
TG: that isn’t a bad idea  
TG: i mean i basically told him that all i wanted him for was sex even though i didn’t mean to  
TG: that might actually clear the air some  
TG: if i show him that i like his form in an artistic sense  
TA: ii would fiigure out a better way to word that, but ye2.  
TG: ok  
TG: you’ve actually been the most helpful out of anyone and i barely even know you  
TA: any tiime ii gue22. al2o iif thiing2 don’t work out, you know where two fiind me.  
TG: you’ll be the first person on my to do list  
TA: eheheheheh  
TG: anyway later  
TG: damage control time

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA] at 12:20 –

\---------------------------

You tow the line between being concerned and being an obnoxious prat for the next few days. You pester John whenever you see that he’s on, but he only responds once by accident with the phrase ‘a cartoon about adorable furries living in portland’ before closing out the window. You aren’t sure you wanna know.

On Thursday you get a chat notification, and you figure that its just Rose wanting to bother you or something.

Your chest about bursts when you see blue letters flash across the screen.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:01--

EB: someone is about to pester you.  
EB: don’t close out of the window or anything.  
EB: ok bye.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:02--

TG: hey man i was hoping that you would  
TG: oh never mind you just closed the chat   
TG: so i’m talking to myself  
TG: shut up

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 18:03 –

You wait patiently for no more than thirty seconds.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:01--

GG: is this dave??  
TG: in the digital flesh  
GG: good because . . .   
GG: FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!  
GG: GET YOUR SEXY BROTHER UNDER CONTROL! >:(  
TG: what  
TG: oh my god  
TG: who is this  
TG: its his abs isn't it  
GG: jade harley!  
GG: the person who wrote you a stellar review remember???  
TG: harley oh my god  
TG: is it your dad tell me its not your dad  
GG: no . . .  
GG: its my grandpa!!  
TG: oh my fucking god  
GG: hes old and fragile!  
GG: your brother should know better!!!  
TG: actually bro’s been coming in the past few days with some pretty gnarly bruises  
TG: i’d say the old man is more lively than you think  
GG: NO i’m serious  
GG: tell him to stop or something!  
TG: you think i have any control over what bro does  
TG: whatsoever  
TG: i would take it as a compliment  
TG: bro doesn’t fuck just anybody  
GG: do not talk about my grandpa fucking  
TG: sorry harley  
GG: sigh . . .  
GG: you don’t think its creepy at all?  
TG: how old is gramps  
GG: 74 . . .  
TG: ok that’s pushin it  
GG: yeah :(  
GG: sorry for yelling at you.  
TG: nah don’t worry  
TG: the guy’s behavior is frankly just appalling  
GG: hehe  
GG: well im gonna go then i guess . . .  
TG: can you do me a favor  
GG: sure  
TG: tell john that i am a huge asshole  
TG: shit i mean  
TG: tell him that i say i am a huge asshole  
GG: you want me to tell him that you think you are an asshole?  
TG: yes exactly  
GG: ok . . .  
TG: thanks  
GG: no problem!  
GG: talk to you later!

-\-- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:15--

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:18--

EB: i know.  
EB: <3

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceaseed pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:18--

Later in the evening when the warm glow of a less than three emoticon has been replaced by the glow of whiskey, you get a call from the manager of Suit.

"Strider, we’ve got an emergency health department issue that we’re taking care of tomorrow, so you’re not needed to mix."

"Oh, uh, ok." Your speech slurs slightly.

"We’re still going to pay you though, its not your fault that the fucking bartender stashed wine in the ceiling tiles which leaked and gathered all sorts of cretinous – fuck, just don’t show up or you’ll be scrubbing things down with bleach."

"Yes sir."

Click.

Sometimes its almost like the author of existence just plops a big fat deux ex machina right in your lap.

You certainly aren’t complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://i48.tinypic.com/1pjfcj.jpg


	11. click

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the full sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentines day here is the moment that you might have been waiting for
> 
> ill fix typos later 
> 
> hi also if you want to send me requests to write go here: backspaceunlimited.tumblr.com
> 
> <333333

Where’s your goddamn theme song. This is Mission Impossible: Secure the Perimeter Around Egbert’s Cubicle Without Anyone Calling Security. Now you know why they wanted Tom Cruise for those films: its way easier not to draw attention to yourself when you’re short as fuck.

It was simple enough to find the building, especially considering the fact that its got huge fucking letters plastered across it that read “The New York Times.” Locating John was a little trickier, but no one gave you any second glances as you rode up and down in the glass elevator, scouring floors until you found one that had film memorabilia all over the walls.

Its a huge department, and you've been sitting in the empty cubicle diagonally across from John for twenty minutes, peeking through a crack in the cheap plastic barrier. 

John is furiously tapping at his keyboard, alternating between chewing on his bottom lip and poking his tongue out from between his teeth. You want to wait for him to take a break, but from the looks of it, the chances of that happening before 5pm are slim to none. 

Plus, you’re are starting to creep yourself out.

Time to move.

You stand and straighten into your usual slouch, then take the corner around the cubicle block as sharply as you can. John doesn’t even look up when you’re standing right behind him.

"John."

"Hmm."

"John Egbert."

"What." He keeps tapping away furiously. "If you need me to proofread, just email me. I’m pretty busy right now."

Wow. Ok.

He sits up unnaturally straight in his chair, which is great because it means that you don’t have to lean down far to place a light kiss on the back of his neck.

His fingers stop. Then they clench into tight fists.

John spins around in his chair so fast that not even your superior reflexes can prevent the imminent collision. His forehead and your forehead go on a romantic date to the fucking trauma ward.

“SHIT.” He presses both hands to his head and clenches his eyes closed. 

You make a graceful departure to the freshly waxed tile floor of the goddamn New York Times building.

A few people peek over the tops of their cubicles. You hear a tinkling laugh, followed by other haphazard mutterings.

John ignores them sits there gaping at you. Your vision is swimming.

“Uh. Hi Dave.”

“Sup.” You just want to lay on the cold floor and curl into a ball of stupidity and self-loathing.

“What are you doing here.”

“Oh y'know. Just in the area.”

“Dave.”

“Right well.” You clear your throat. You wish you could stand up and be more formal about this, but you have a feeling that any sudden movement would give you a gut wrenching case of vertigo. 

Time to get to the fucking point.

“Well, sorry. For shit.” Eloquent. You'll be the fucking poet laureate before long.

John gives you a look that could curdle cheese.

“Really? All this way?” He shakes his head and grins so widely that you forget to exhale for a second. “You dumbass.”

Oh. “So. We're cool?” 

“I'm cool. But you're sitting on the floor in the middle of my office. So not cool. At all.” 

“Fair enough.”

You manage to stumble to your feet, and several curious faces look quickly back to their work. You glare at one guy from across the room who is smirking amusedly at the scene. He gives you the body language equivalent of 'fuck you' before turning back to his computer.

“So, what are you doing.” You lean against the corner of John's desk and stare at his computer screen.

“Writing a promo for The Hangover 4.” He doesn't even have the decency to look unexcited about it.

“Really?”

“Yes Dave. Really.” He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “I've actually been pretty swamped this week.”

“Oh.” Well now you feel shitty again. “Sorry.”

“I know this apologizing thing is new for you, but stop.” He leans over in his chair until his head is resting against your side.

“If you say so.”

You eventually pull over a chair to watch him work. As completely absurd as his content is, you begrudgingly admit that the guy can write. Really well actually. Its not that you ever thought he was dumb (ok thats a lie but seriously who likes the fucking Transformers films), but Egbert definitely doesn't give off the young-successful-intellectual vibe. 

Either way, there's still no chance in hell that you're ever gonna see The Hangover 4.

At 4:21, John finally finishes up his shit and sends his draft off. You got bored after about fifteen minutes of watching him waffle between the adjectives ‘enchanting’ and ‘enrapturing,’ so you've been busying yourself with straightening paper clips.

“Done.” He rolls his neck and flexes his long fingers, then looks down at the paper clip massacre and shakes his head. “What did you do to my stuff?”

“You were too preoccupied to notice anyway.” You put a paper clip between your teeth and chew on the end. “Dus thith mean we can get out ov here?”

“I can't leave until five Dave.”

“Fucking desk jobs.” 

John looks a like he's about to deliver what you are sure is going to be a terrible rebuke for your disdain, but the door on the far side of the office bursts open, cutting him off.

“YOU LAZY INSIPID BUNCH OF GENITALIA FONDLING WASTES OF AIR.”

“Goddamnit.” John pushes his glasses up and rubs his eyes. 

The man yelling for no discernible reason stands in the middle of the office and taps his foot while scouring the room with glinting dark eyes. Everything about his body language indicates that you should be nervous, but your first instinct is to aim a doggy squirt bottle at him and pull the trigger.

“CAN SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHY, IN A ROOM FULL OF SUPPOSEDLY INTELLIGENT INTERMEDIATE LIFE FORMS, I DON'T HAVE A SINGLE FUCKING PIECE READY FOR MONDAY'S PAPER.”

No one responds. Keyboard clicks seem deafening in the silence.

“Anyone?” Thank god he lowers his voice.

“I sent mine in, should be in your inbox.” John is obviously trying to act apathetic, but a little quirk in his voice says otherwise.

“Never mind everyone! John here has sent me his fetid pathetic excuse for entertainment media. PAPER FUCKING SAVED.” The man takes a few steps towards John's cubicle, and you bristle reflexively.

John sits up a little straighter. “Geez Karkat, take a chill pill.” 

Karkat. Wait. Is this the same guy who. Oh. Fuck.

“OH BELIEVE ME, I'M GOING TO GO BACK TO MY HOUSE AND TAKE A GOOD LONG DRINK AFTER ALL YOU DISORDERED SHIT RINSERS STOP WRITHING IN PILES OF YOUR OWN VOMIT AND GIVE ME YOUR COLUMNS.” 

He takes a huge gulp of air and focuses his gaze on you. “Who is the enormous dick in the sunglasses and what the fuck is he doing here?”

You throw on a smirk. “Generally people ask my name before complimenting my dick, but this could work.”

John groans. “Don't encourage him.”

“Wow, It looks like Egbert took a shit next to his desk and kept it so long that it became half-sentient.” Karkat crosses his arms and digs his fingernails into his suit jacket.

John levels his voice and puts a hand on your shoulder. “This is my boyfriend Dave. Dave, Karkat Vantas, my boss.”

Your brain is too busy exploding into glittering fractals over the word boyfriend to realize that Vantas looks like someone punched him square in the jaw.

“Oh,” is all he can manage. Its a departure from his scene a few minutes ago, and you swear you see a faint flush creeping up the side of his ears. 

“Yep.” You perform a mock bow in Karkat's general direction. John elbows you in the ribs.

After a few seconds, Karkat seems to snap out of whatever daze he put himself in. “If you two are through flexing your formidable mental handicaps, I suggest that you both get the fuck out of my goddamn office.”

“But we were just getting to know each other.” You exaggerate a pout. Karkat sputters in place.

“GET OUT. Both of you. Now.” He looks at John. “I'd better see you here thirty fucking minutes early on Monday.”

John has his briefcase packed and is tugging on your arm before you can even mouth the words “anal sphincter.”

\-------------------------------------------

The sun is starting to sink below the tallest of the skyscrapers, drawing out the shadows of streetlights and passersby. The weather has begun to cool down, and a shiver runs through your spine as soon as your step outside. John seems unaffected.

“So.”

“So.”

John smacks you in the hip with his briefcase. 

“Where are we going?”

“I dunno. I didn't really think about what would happen if you were actually cool about all this shit.”

He gives you a hard look. “What were you expecting me to do?”

“Generally flip out and refuse to see me or something.”

“Why would I do that?”

You sigh and absentmindedly brush your bangs across your forehead. “Cause its probably what I would have considered doing.”

“You're a big baby though.”

“Shut up.”

John grins and stops on the street corner next to a taco vendor. Your stomach rumbles, reminding you of earlier today, when your anxiety was too high for you to even contemplate eating anything. It all seems pretty distant now.

“Well, wanna come over to my place?” John waggles his eyebrows in the cheesiest way possible and the corner of your mouth tugs into a smile.

You glance seductively at the tacos. “Only if you cook for me.”

“Deal.” The little green man lights up, and John starts walking into the intersection.

“Wait.” You tug on his arm and he stumbles back into you. A woman behind you scoffs angrily at the sudden halt.

“Cal's in the parking garage, so I have to get him.”

The woman pushes past John more forcefully than in necessary, and you swear that he sticks his tongue out at her for a brief half second before remembering that he is kind of an adult. 

“I still don't understand why you named your car after a thing that scares the crap out of you.”

“Cause its awesome, end of story.” The two of you have become an island amongst a flood of people wanting to walk across the street.

“Well my apartment is like ten blocks away from here, so I usually just walk.” He glances longingly at the other side of the road. Twenty-four seconds left to cross.

“You're the one afraid of Cal, aren't you?” You cock your head and raise your eyebrows.

“No, I just don't feel the need to pollute the air constantly with a red metal death trap if I can easily walk.” He looks at the crossing meter. Fifteen seconds left. “Also, maybe.”

Ten seconds left to cross. The stream of bodies behind you is thinning out, and a few people in suits begin a jog across the street. John sighs resignedly. 

“Fine. I guess you can’t just leave it there.”

“Damn straight, I'm already paying $26.00 for parking.” You grab his arm and tug him back from the curb as the orange hand flashes on the meter and cabs begin gunning across the intersection for stray pedestrians.

"Come on then."

You and the taco vendor share a smoldering glance before John pulls you in the general direction of the parking garage.

\----------------------------------------------------------

John's apartment complex is literally ten blocks away. And its fucking nice. Not lesbian bungalow in The Hamptons nice, but it sure puts your shithole to shame.

John has to buzz you into the garage under the complex, and the parking attendant simultaneously waves brightly at him and scowls at you. Actually he's probably scowling at your car. Cal belches out a cute little cloud of black smoke as you drive underneath the open gate arm.

His apartment is on the 4th floor, apartment #413. He fumbles with his keys for a minute while you look amusedly on. Eventually the key clicks in the lock. 

John opens the door to ‘holy shit this is huge how does this even still qualify as an apartment.’ You just sort of stand there dumbfounded, feeling kind of shitty for ever showing him the inside of your place.

“Up you go then.”

“What?”

In your self-conscious scrutiny of John’s posh entryway, you hadn't noticed him sidestep behind you. However, you do notice when he swipes his arm to knock your knees out from under you. 

You let out a small yelp and suddenly your back is being being supported and you are lifted off the ground and oh.

“Bridal style?” You are not amused.

“Yes!” John has the hugest most self-satisfied smirk on his face and you don't know whether you want to slap him or fuck him. Maybe both.

“How much do you weigh, seriously.” John does a couple of fucking arm curls with your body. You very unsuavely wrap your hands around his neck to keep him from dropping you.

“Enough.”

“You're so tiny.” 

“Just cross the fucking threshold Egbert goddamnit.”

He snorts and makes a show of pausing dramatically before making that first step through the door. You feel something weirdly ceremonial tighten in your chest when he finally steps into his entryway.

That feeling shatters of course when he puts you down with the same amount of delicacy as he picked you up with. You have to brace yourself against the wall to keep from falling over. 

Its not as if your ass hasn’t made more than enough unintentional contact with the floor today.

“Oops.” John looks concerned for a microsecond. 

“No shit dude, you need to brush up on your romantic motor skills, especially when I’m doing such a damn good job of being a blushing bride all up in your-"

John turns to you with a groan and pushes you against the wall. "Shut up Dave."

You have no choice in the matter when he crushes his mouth to yours needily, biting and sucking on your slightly chapped lips. You thread your arms around his neck and pull his body closer to yours. God he’s fucking warm and he smells faintly like some expensive cologne and fuck. His hands press into your chest, kneading your collarbone with long fingers. 

In your rush to begin sucking face as soon as possible, you accidentally clank your tongue barbell against his teeth. He pulls back with a yelp. 

"Sorry," you mumble, tugging on his neck to pull him close and salvage the moment.

"Stop saying that." His breath ghosts against your lips. He smiles into your mouth, but resists your solicitation for continued tonsil hockey. 

"I’m going to start dinner." 

“Like hell you are.” You bridge the gap and give him as deep of a kiss as you can before he pulls away laughing. Your stomach growls audibly.

Fine. "Fine. Food first. Sloppy makeouts second."

"You got it." He seems to become aware that you two have been standing in the entryway with the door open for the past few minutes. He shuts it quickly before turning and striding into the living area.

By living area, you mean an open space roughly the size of your entire apartment.

"Nice digs Egbert."

"The Times basically set me up with it."

"They pay for your housing?"

John laughs. "No, I wish. They just pressured the manager into letting a recent graduate with no line of credit sign for a massively expensive apartment that he doesn’t really need."

"Sweet." You are starting to feel pretty damn insignificant. Time to change the subject.

"So, what’s with the clown painting?" The number in question is a large canvas above the fireplace, with awful saturated colors and a perma-grinning asshole in a jester’s hat staring eerily out. Its awful.

John cringes. "My dad got me that as a housewarming gift."

"Charming."

"He has a thing for harlequin clowns. Or he thinks I do. Or something."

"Ok." Fucking weird. But who are you kidding, your brother makes porno puppets. And John doesn’t know about your collection of pickled dead shit that you keep in the closet.

"He tries really hard, but sometimes I don’t think he knows me very well."

"Does he know that you licked another man’s spunk and liked it?"

"I didn’t like it. You tasted gross." 

"In theory you like the idea of tasting another man’s baby batter."

"I guess. And no, I haven’t dropped that one on him yet. Not that he would care, its just that I already have three cakes in the freezer, and I don’t need another one coming in the mail right now that is iced ‘Congratulations on discovering your homosexuality, I am so proud of you.’"

"I’ll take it if you don’t want it."

"Ugh."

The two of you walk into the massive kitchen, and John begins rooting around in a cabinet.

"So, what are you hungry for?" He pulls out a measuring cup and places it on the granite counter top.

"Whatever you want to make babe."

"How about real Chinese food?"

"Ok, but you’re gonna have to be pretty damn good to beat Panda Express is all I’m saying."

John pulls an enormous wok from the cabinet and brandishes it menacingly.

"As if it will even be a contest. Go sit down, you’re in the way."

"Yes sir."

You take a seat at his kitchen table and watch him pull out some sort of meat from the freezer, and some mushrooms and other vegetables from the fridge. 

Cooking is like magic and it kind of scares you. John doesn’t even flinch when he turns on the gas stove and puts on water to boil.

He’s busy chopping mushrooms and whatever that green shit is, so you have free reign to stare at him all you want without it being weird. You love how he didn’t even bother to take off his suit jacket, and how his tie is on a little crooked. Also how he bites his lip when he’s concentrating, how his five o’clock shadow looks like your two week attempt at trying to grow a beard, and how his hair manages to just always look really really shitty.

John bends over to grab some olive oil from the bottom shelf of his pantry, and you are treated to the glorious sight of dat ass, just all jutting out and being impudent about your dismissal from the kitchen or whatever.

You wolf whistle. John straightens quickly. You pout. John rolls his eyes and throws some noodles in the boiling pot. 

"Can’t you find something to do?" He gestures into the living room and the giant flat screen. "Go watch TV or something, you’re being really distracting." A flush is spreading across his cheeks and oh. You’re getting to him. Good.

"Hey you’re putting on a better show than anything I could see on the food network." You raise one eyebrow and he groans, throwing some olive oil into the wok. 

He grabs the handle and works the oil around the pan and you have a dumb moment where you ponder the composition of a shot where the angles of his body are framed against the stove. 

Dumb because you have the ability to make your mental snapshot a reality. You stowed your camera in your car this morning, just in case the surprise visit went better than expected. It did.

"Hey, can I borrow your keys to get back in, I need to grab something from my car."

John looks puzzled, but points to his keyring on the counter. "Sure."

"Thanks." You snag them and exit his place, taking the stairs two at a time.

Cal’s passenger’s side door squeaks loudly when you wrench it open, and you fumble in the glove compartment with your pink nylon camera bag. You aren’t going to need anything special, so you just take the normal lens. You are going to need multiple rolls of film though. Hopefully.

You throw it all in your bag and slam the door. The noise reverberates around the garage as you lock Cal and head back upstairs.

When you enter the apartment again, the smell that greets you is fucking intoxicating.

"Damn Egbert."

"Told you." Strips of meat and vegetables are sizzling happily in the wok, and John is actually turning them with a set of chopsticks.

Holy shit just when you thought he couldn't get any hotter he goes and pulls fucking chopsticks out on you.

You hastily sit at the kitchen table and unzip your bag. John looks over for a moment, then shakes his head and goes back to flipping mushrooms. 

There’s already film in the camera, so you just snap the lens into place. You compose the frame of his body through the viewfinder and adjust the focus.

He clamps onto a leek with the chopsticks and turns it with a flourish. 

Click.

His elbow forms a nice angle in the air as he pours more olive oil into the pan.

Click.

He picks up pieces of par-cooked meat and places them in a bowl next to him.

Click.

Its not until he goes to get a strainer for the noodles that he notices what you were doing. Luckily, before that, you got a very choice shot of his round badonkadonk.

"What is that. What are you doing." He stops and just stares at you. Ok, maybe this came off as creepy rather than sexy.

You try to play it off. “A little slow on the uptake there Egbert.” You smirk and rest the camera against your stomach. "I’ve been shooting your for like ten minutes."

He pulls the wok off the stove and pours the noodles into the strainer before stepping warily over to the kitchen table.

"Let me see at least." The corners of his lips purse bitterly. “I hate pictures of myself.”

“Sorry, but I can't do that.”

“Oh my god you are such an ass. Let me see.” He reaches for your camera and you let him take it.

When he flips the thing over, he audibly groans.

“What even is this. There's no screen.”

“That's because it takes film.”

“Oh my god.” He rolls his eyes. “Could you get any more pretentious?”

“Yep.”

“So you can't delete it?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck.” He hands the camera back to you. You take the opportunity to snap another photo of his frustrated expression.

“Quit it.”

“No. You forget that I'm good at this.”

“You forget that I'm probably the most unphotogenic guy in the world.” The look on his face is pure disgust, and it makes your gut twist.

"I wouldn’t be wasting film if I thought that."

The look he gives you flashes between self-deprecation and worry. Ok, this isn’t going to fly.

"John Egbert. You are a hot piece of ass. Deal with it."

His laughter surprises you, and he just shakes his head before going back to the kitchen and throwing noodles into the wok. You take a few more good pictures of him tossing the dish, until he finally slides the contents onto a big serving platter and brings it to the table. 

Your stomach groans in approval.

He grabs some plates and two water bottles and then sits himself down across from you.

"So it smells like the lovechild of P.F. Chang and Jesus, but what exactly is it?"

"Its called Chao Rou Gu Mian, and its pork, mushrooms, veggies and noodles." He picks up a slight Chinese accent when he names the dish and you barely keep yourself from pelvic thrusting up at him.

"Actually, this isn’t even that authentic. Its more street food than actual home cooking. But, I didn’t want to scare you away with too many vegetables." He grins and kicks you lightly under the table. You’re too busy scooping noodles onto your plate to retaliate.

"Fork. Need a fork."

"Oh, here." John gets up and rummages around in a drawer before handing you something that is definitely not a fork.

"Do you really think I can use chopsticks dude?" You hold one in each fist and just stare at him.

"Nope, which is why I’m looking forward to seeing you try." He loads up his own chopsticks with noodles and slurps them into his mouth.

You really do try. But after five minutes of laughing to the point of tears at your vain attempts of getting one goddamn noodle into your mouth, he relents and hands you a fork.

"Finally." You aren’t proud of the uncontrollable sexual moan that escapes your lips when you finally manage to skewer a piece of pork.

"Fuck John. This is." You shovel more food in and talk around a mouthful. "Fookin orgathmic."

"Told you." He pops a piece of carrot into his mouth and smiles. "Better than Panda Express?"

You just moan again and hope he takes it for a hell fucking yes.

The two of you finish in relative silence, mainly because you are too busy making a complete pig of yourself, and he is too busy laughing.

Once both of you are too gutted to move, he grabs the dishes and takes them into the kitchen. You stand up and waddle over to the couch, where you collapse in a bloated heap.

"You broke me John."

"You broke yourself." He plops down next to you. Finally realizing that he still has on all his work clothes, he removes his jacket and tie, then throws them on the floor. 

You take the first opportunity you can to worm your way into his side. He puts an arm around you.

"So." He clears his throat. "I still don’t like the photos."

"Why not?"

"Because I just don’t ok?" You lightly run one of your hands down his chest, and stop when you reach his chubby stomach. He swats your hand away.

"Stop. That’s reason number one."

"What? This?" You pat his stomach and it jiggles.

"Stop dude. Seriously." His tone is really stern, and when you look up, he looks back at you with something crushing in his eyes.

Fuck that noise. "Like I said. Hot piece of ass."

He bites his lip and looks at you distrustfully. You keep a solid deadpan.

Finally, he breaks with a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. "None of my other girlfriends have ever really thought so, I guess." He shakes his head. "Especially my last one. She was pretty dominating, and I’m pretty sure I just grossed her out."

"Well she’s a huge bitch then." You want to fucking destroy her. "Why would they be with you anyway if they didn’t find you attractive?"

"My winning personality!" His face brightens cheerily before falling back into something melancholic.

"Well, they don’t know what they’re missing then." You lean back and prod the corner of his butt. "She must’ve been bad if she made you wanna switch teams."

He chuckles darkly. "I don’t know if I would quite say that. But yeah, I suppose I am more open to the idea of men’s butts than I was before." He reaches over and intertwines his fingers between yours. "Really, it wasn’t so much her that made me reconsider. That sort of happened when I met you."

Huh. "Told you, couldn’t resist the Strider charm."

"Yeah right." He flushes slightly. "I don’t know. You were just supportive I guess. And impressed by my stupid movie stuff."

"I don’t know if impressed is exactly the right term -"

"Shut up, you know you are. And you never made me feel bad about the way I look, or for liking the dumb things that I like, even when you joked around about it."

"Why would I want to make you feel like shit?"

"I dunno. Other people do."

"Well those people suck."

He kisses your forehead and your chest pangs violently.

"Yeah. Also, you’re pretty attractive. For a guy."

"Thanks babe. You too."

Thanks to the conversation, your food has settled some. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, with John stroking your wrist with his thumb, and you nestled into his shoulder. 

"Dave?"

"Hmm?"

"You aren’t cool at all." 

"What."

He leans down and captures your mouth in a soft kiss, and you just melt into his body. For once since this whole relationship (you guess you can call it a relationship now) started, you feel like you actually understand him a little, which makes this fairly chaste embrace seem way more intimate than anything else you’ve ever shared.

He turns his body towards yours and deepens the kiss, gently caressing your tongue, and wrapping his arms around your waist. Your glasses clank together at this angle, and he reaches up to remove his frames without taking his mouth from yours.

You hear a clatter and assume that he tossed them across the room. His hand returns to your waist, and you respond by carding your fingers through his hair. He audibly sighs in your mouth, and pulls your body tightly to his own. 

His mouth is so hot, and the kiss tastes like ginger and soy sauce and sometimes when you pull on the roots of his hair just right he bites your bottom lip and you groan as the white hot sensation travels down your body, and you feel him shudder and rock against you. 

Its such a slow burn, and your cheeks and veins feel like they are coursing with something indescribably hot and you just want to fucking ravish him because he’s so fucking perfect amid all his perceived imperfections.

You can barely fucking stand it anymore. You break the kissing and mumble into his mouth, "Bedroom." 

John opens his eyes and god you’ve never seen a more lusty expression. Without another word he pulls back and slides off the couch. You follow suit, and he takes your hand and leads you past the kitchen.

You snag your camera off the table as you pass by, and throw it around your neck.

John pushes open the door to his room and its so much messier than the surrounding apartment. His large bed is unmade, the comforter is pushed onto the floor, and his clothes are scattered everywhere. He has an entire floor-to-ceiling shelf of DVDs, some of which are also strewn on his floor. 

He grins a bit sheepishly at the mess. You ignore it and start to unbutton his shirt. 

"Hey. What are you-"

"What does it look like John, I’m trying to get you naked."

"Oh." He stands stiffly, and only moves when you’ve got his shirt fully open, to slide his arms out of the sleeves.

Click.

"Hey."

Click. God his chest is so fucking

Click. You’ve never seen his chest before and its so hairy and fucking manly and you just

Click.

"Are you going to-"

Click.

"Yes." You let the camera fall back on the strap, and begin work undoing his belt.

John seems helpless and a little embarrassed, but when you give his semi a squeeze through his dress pants, he gasps and closes his eyes.

Click.

You finish undoing his belt, then tug at the button and zipper. His pants drops onto the ground.

Click.

At this point you’re just running your hands all over his chest and his stomach, occasionally dipping lower to his boxers-covered cock. John lets out small moans and thrusts into your hand.

Click.

You place a hand into the center of his chest, and back him up until he falls onto the bed. He pulls himself up until his body is propped on pillows, and arches his arms behind his head. 

Click.

Click.

Fucking click.

Your own erection is straining painfully hard against your pants, and the borderline fetishistic camera shots must be doing something for John too because his dick is protruding significantly from his boxers and fuck they need to go right now.

You walk over to the side of the bed and run your hands down his sides before slipping your fingers below the elastic waistband and pulling them down. 

His cock practically springs out and he moans and throws his head back. You quickly free a hand and fumble with the camera. 

Click.

Click.

Click.

Clunk.

You’re at the end of the roll. Thank god you had enough to get those last shots in. You continue pulling John’s boxers down his legs until they are on the ground, then reach up and pump his cock roughly.

"I’m going to get another roll of film."

"Yessss," he moans breathily. You practically leap into the other room to dig around in your bag, and fumble with the cartridges until you’ve got another one in place.

You stride back into the bedroom and oh.

Click.

Click. 

John is touching himself softly, fingers tracing down the length of his hard cock.

Click.

"Fuuuuck. Dave, get over here."

You can’t comply fast enough. 

You brush his hand away, and begin your own ministrations, trying to remember the flicking the wrist technique that he used on you last time. 

"Ohhmygoshittt." John starts bucking into your hand, fingers clenching in the sheets. 

Click.

He’s panting heavily and muttering your name over and over, so you pull away, not wanting him to finish too soon.

Click. He looks so goddamn disappointed.

"Dave, you’re wearing too many clothes."

"Thought you’d never ask." You shuck off your shirt and pants faster than you would’ve thought possible. Your shades are knocked askew and you just throw them in the pile of clothes on the floor.

John looks up and down your body, gaze lingering on your raging boner. 

Click. 

Just

Click

that look on his face.

Click.

Fuck.

That's it. You take your camera off and place it on the nightstand, then climb on top of John.

You kiss him roughly, gripping his lip between your teeth and sucking, then moving down to his neck. He rolls his body, practically fucking the distance between you, and moans from deep in his chest.

Enough teasing.

You slide down so that your bodies are touching, and he gasps and bucks when your cock brushes against his stomach. He’s so much taller than you that the head of his dick brushes against your balls and holy fuck this feels amazing. 

You work up a rhythm, thrusting against one another and god he’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, splayed out and moaning beneath you and you just want him to fuck you so hard that you can’t see straight.

He seems to have a similar idea, because suddenly he grabs your hips and the head of his cock brushes between the cleft of your ass. 

"Fuuuck, wait." You try to pull off him when you realize what is happening but its too late. He rams the head of his cock partially inside you, and a searing pain shoots up your spine.

"OWWFUCK." You kick off him and curl into a ball on the side of his bed. Fuck. He didn’t know you guess but fuck seriously what the hell.

"Dave? OhmygodDave areyouok? Shitshitshit. John sits up on his knees and has a minor freakout. 

He’s fucking endearing even if he did just try to go in dry.

"Chill." Your voice is a little shaky, but the pain is subsiding quickly. You’re just gonna be sore as fuck tomorrow. "Lube."

"Right. Ok. Fuck." John digs around in the nightstand drawer and produces a small capped bottle. He sort of sits there uncertainly, biting his bottom lip, until you snatch it from him.

"Just watch." If you’re going to put on a show, might has well have it be instructional.

You pop the cap and squeeze lube on your finger. Its fucking cold but oh well.

John is sitting on the corner of his bed, looking way too concerned. You lay on your back with your ass facing him, then spread your legs into the air.

Its John’s first full ass view. He looks more bewildered than repulsed, which you take to be a good sign.

You dip your finger down to your butt and trace your entrance with the lube lightly, just trying to slick it up. It is fucking cold, but you fix that when you slowly stick a finger inside and start to work yourself. With your other hand, you squeeze the bottle directly onto your asshole, and continue pressing in and out.

Your mind drifts to how John’s long fingers would feel, as you put in a second digit and it burns slightly because you haven’t been assfucked in a while but damn when you put in a third its like the fucking heavens open up. That is, if the heavens were a gaping asshole.

Speaking of gaping. John’s mouth is hanging open, and so you groan and buck a little for his benefit. Any boners that were lost have been suddenly regained.

"John. Fuck. Me."

The bed creaks, and tentative fingers caress your hips.

"Is this ok?" He looks so worried and its adorable and sexy and goddamn.

"Just do it gradually." You hand him the bottle of lube and he slicks up his cock before positioning the head of it at your entrance.

"Ready?"

"Mmhmm."

"Ok." The bastard nervously chuckles when he presses inside you, which would be a major turn off if a) it didn’t devolve into a moan the second he got in past the tip and b) if you weren’t currently basking in a painful ecstasy.

"Shit. Dave. This is – unnnhh – a tight fit." 

"Hence the lube and -mmm- goin’ slow."

"Right."

He presses into you slowly, and you guide him to work in and out as he does so. Frankly it hurts like a bitch because you’ve never taken a cock as thick and John’s but he does a surprisingly good job of taking it easy and you’re surprised when you feel a tickle of hair and his hips connect with the cleft of your ass.

"Uh, all in." His voice is thick and he swallows hard.

"Jus’ give id'a minute." God you don’t know if you can take this. Yeah. You can. "Alright."

John pulls his hips backwards and god that burns but when he slowly slides back in you melt into his touch, savoring the pain and the feeling of being filled and fuck.

He keeps a slow rhythm going, and every time he pushes in he pulls you close, and soon enough its not enough.

"C’mon." You thrust your hips into him, and frankly you can’t be fucking bothered to control any of the noises or dialects that might spew from your mouth.

"Oh. Damn."

He thrusts into you hard, and you can’t even try to stop the moan that escapes your mouth. He snaps his hips back again and fuck you just feel so full, and soon he’s pounding your ass and you see all the restraint he had because he’s not holding back a thing now.

"Jesus fuckin’ JOHN on a goddamn hot wok full a’ sexy oil an’ hot fuck with a pair a’ fuckin’ chopsticks and perky ass lips suckin’ in my big ol’ noodle and-"

John silences your mumbling with a crushing kiss, and you rock together like the entire world was going to grind to a crushing halt at any second. Soon enough, John lets out his longest groan yet, and shudders and buries himself as deep as he can inside you and bites down on your collarbone and sweet god what a fucking stud.

He lays on top of you for a minute, catching his breath and placing soft kisses on your chest. You can feel him soften inside you, and he pulls out with an obscenely sticky noise.

Your whole body is flushed from the sufficient ass reaming, and your cock throbs painfully hard against your stomach. Time to take care of that. 

John notices when you glance down, and he immediately takes your cock in his hand. He examines it for a second before taking a tentative lick across the head. 

You buck your hips. Holy shit.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. Its not the best blow job you’ve ever gotten, but John is nothing short of enthusiastic, and he looks so fucking hot bobbing up and down. Embarrassingly soon, you feel the heat pooling in your lower body and you have to tell him that -

"Johnfuckinhellimmacum." And you do, posthaste. 

He even has the courage to swallow it all, as surprised as he looks when ropes of your cum coat the inside of his mouth. He gulps and makes a face, before pulling off your cock with an succulent pop.

"Goddamn." You fall back onto his pillows, and he lays beside you.

You bask in the afterglow for a few minutes, sore and curled in the crook of John’s arm, him breathing hotly into your hair.

Once your brain has cleared slightly, you remember your camera. You squirm out of his embrace to grab it from the nightstand.

This needs a fucking photo finish. 

"What are you doing now?"

You roll back over and press into his side. "Just hold me damnit."

He wraps his arms around you and smooshes his cheek to yours. You feel rather than see him grin, and it just makes your chest flutter with something very warm and very gay, and everything is suddenly perfect and even the dull ache in your ass can’t ruin this. 

You extend your arm, and try to center the two of your faces the best you can from the other side of the camera. 

What the hell. You smile. John smiles.

Click.

Click.

Click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://oi50.tinypic.com/2nq9swi.jpg


End file.
